YOU    MKAN    THAI     1    AM    To    i:<>    TO    TIIK    I'ol.K'K    STATION?' 
ASKKD    KKO." 


Feo 


A    Romance 

By 
Max    Pemberton 

Author  of 

"The  Garden  of  Swords,"  "The  Little 
Huguenot,"  etc. 

With  Illustrations 


New  Tork 

DODD,  MEAD  fcf  COMPANY 
i  goo 


Copyright,  1899 

by 
MAX  PEMBERTON 


Contents 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    THE  SINGER 1 

II.    A  CUIRASSIEE  OP  THE  GUARD    .  .  .  .10 

III.  THE  INTRIGUE 23 

IV.  THE  MAIL  TO  PARIS 29 

V.  THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  AVENUE  MARCEAU    .        .    35 

VI.  THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  DOUBT        .        .        .44 

VII.  WESTWARD  TO  THE  Bois 52 

VIII.  THE  LIE 61 

IX.  UNMASKED 68 

X.  A  WOMAN'S  WAY 72 

XI.    THEVlOLON 85 

XII.  WHILE  PARIS  SLEPT 94 

XIII.  IN  THE  EUE  AUBER 103 

XIV.  THE  COUNTER-MARCH 115 

XV.  A  STRANGE  FAREWELL 127 

XVI.  AT  THE  CHATEAU  DE  Joux       ....  135 

XVII.  THE  EMPTY  CARRIAGE 145 

XVIII.  THE  TELEGRAM 152 

XIX.  PERIL 160 

XX.  THE  ROAD  TO  NEUFCHATEL      ....  174 

XXI.  FOR  FREEDOM 182 

XXII.  THE  RING  OF  HOOFS 190 

XXIII.  THE  INSULT 201 

XXIV.  SUNSHINE         .       .       .       ,       .       .       .308 

v 


2137628 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAOB 

XXV.  THE  SECRET 220 

XXVI.  THE  SHADOW    . 229 

XXVII.  THE  VISION 237 

XXVIII.  IN  THE  HOLLOW  OP  THE  GLADE       .        .        .245 

XXIX.  THE  COUNT  OF  TEAVNA 262 

XXX.  THE  QUESTION 269 

XXXI.  EESOLUTION 281 

XXXII.  THE  BREAKING  DAWN 287 

XXXIII.  THE  END  OF  THE  PLAY  .  291 


List  of  Illustrations 

"  'Do  you  mean  that  I  am  to  go  to  the  police  station?' 

asked  F^o"  ...'..  Frontispiece. 
"  Feo  shut  the  window  with  a  slam  "  ....  2 
"Old  George  de  Berthier  lingered  over  his  wine "  .  .10 

"  Captain  Otto  Lamberg  " 15 

"  '  Well,'  he  said  laconically,  'so  I  have  run  you  to  earth 

at  last'" 30 

"  He  pulled  at  the  bell  " 43 

" '  I  am  tired  of  prudence, '  she  said  "  .  .  .  .50 
"  A  hand  was  laid  gently  upon  her  shoulder  "  .  .  .57 
"  The  concierge  shrugged  his  shoulders "  .  .  .71 

"  She  clutched  the  rope  and  swung  out  over  the  abyss  "  .  79 
"  '  Come,'  he  said,  '  this  story  won't  do '"  .  .  .83 
"  The  officer  smiled  in  spite  of  himself  "  .  .  .  .98 
"  '  Madame  and  I  have  just  arrived  from  Geneva '  "  .  108 

"  '  A  visitor,  madame,  he  waits  below  '  "  .  .  .  .  113 
' '  A  waiter  conducted  them  through  kitchens  and  sculleries ' '  126 

"  They  breakfasted  in  the  garden  " 141 

"  '  We  are  going  to  bring  the  renegade  back  '  "  .  .  .  164 
"She  leaned  back  against  the  rock,  panting  "  .  .  .  193 
"  '  And  if  you  die,  don't  complain  that  it  is  my  fault '  "  .  208 
"She  asked  a  hundred  questions  of  the  postman,  who  had 

just  come  up" 212 


vii 


CHAPTEE  I 

THE    SINGER 

THEKE  were  bells  and  caps  for  a  sunny  day  of 
May  ringing  and  nodding  in  the  world  of  Vanity 
Fair,  but  a  shower  falling  late  in  the  afternoon 
sent  the  players  hurrying  to  their  homes  again, 
Feo,  leaning  upon  the  window-sill  of  her  gloomy 
flat  in  Oxford  Street,  looked  down  at  the  press 
of  carriages  rolling  westward,  and  a  little  joy  of 
envy  came  to  her  because  of  the  spiteful  drops 
which  thus  could  rout  so  gay  an  army.  How 
the  dressmakers  would  rejoice  to-morrow!  she 
thought.  How  the  maids  would  catch  it  when 
some  of  these  great  ladies  were  at  home  again  ! 
It  was  pitiful  to  see  the  victorias  held  there  at 
the  corner  by  the  forbidding  hand  of  the  gram- 
marless  law,  while  the  shower  ruined  divine 
chiffons  and  muslins,  over  which  Worth  might 
have  shed  tears.  And  the  dowagers — the  hard, 
set  look  upon  their  faces,  their  deep,  sepulchral 
voices  as  they  asked  again  and  again,  "  Why  are 
we  waiting  here  ?  "  Odd  that  a  little  sprinkle  of 
the  summer  rain,  fresh  as  the  kiss  of  dew  upon 

1 


the  grass,  should  betray  to  all  the  world  that 
other  self  hidden  ever  while  the  sun  shone  and 
there  was  blue  in  the  sky  which  May  had  given  ! 
Feo  laughed  aloud  at  the  duchess's  distress,  and 
laughing,  awoke  her  father,  who  remembered 
that  it  was  time  for  tea. 

"Is  that  you,  Feo?" 

"Who  else  should  it  be,  father?" 

"  Why  do  you  keep  the  window  open  when  it 
is  raining  ?  " 

Feo  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  shut  the  win- 
dow with  a  slam. 

"  I  thought  you  would  like  a  little  fresh  air," 
she  said ;  "  it's  suffocating  here." 

Old  Georges  de  Berthier,  her  father,  took  up 
his  snuff-box  irritably,  and  began  to  fidget  in  his 
chair. 

"Why  is  the  tea  not  ready?  That  woman 
grows  worse  every  day.  How  many  times  must 
I  tell  her  that  five  o'clock  is  my  hour  — 

"  It  is  five  minutes  to  five  now,  father,  and  I 
hear  Mary  on  the  stairs." 

The  maid  came  in  with  the  tea,  and  set  it 
down  with  a  crash  upon  the  rickety  mahogany 
table,  which  was  one  of  the  chief  ornaments  of 
that  shabby  room.  Outside,  upon  the  landing  of 
the  mansions,  a  poor  clerk,  very  wet  and  tired 
as  he  mounted  the  many  steps  to  his  garret  far 
above,  paused  a  moment  to  peep  into  the  room 


"  FEO    SHUT    THE    WINDOW    WITH    A    SLAM.' 


THE  SINGER  3 

and  to  behold  for  the  first  time  the  face  of  her 
whose  voice  •  he  had  heard  so  often  in  his  hours 
of  loneliness.  He  saw  her  as  she  stood  wearily 
by  the  piano,  and  he  thought  that  her  beauty 
surpassed  even  the  portrait  of  her  which  sleep 
had  painted  for  him. 

Feo  poured  out  the  tea  quickly,  as  though  im- 
patient of  her  task.  She  was  grown  old  in 
knowledge  of  her  father's  whims,  of  his  selfish- 
ness which  was  linked  to  fitful  generosity,  of  his 
platitudes  concerning  her  art,  of  his  unfailing  and 
oft-discovered  maladies.  The  stuffy  little  flat 
suffocated  her.  Ambition,  she  knew  not  of  what 
if  it  were  not  of  memory,  carried  her  mind  per- 
petually to  distant  scenes — scenes  of  hill  and 
valley  and  mountain-land,  to  quiet  cities,  to  the 
woods  whose  very  flowers  she  had  forgotten. 
The  jargon  of  the  theatre  dinned  in  her  ears  as 
a  dirge  unendurable.  London  was  a  prison  to 
her.  She  would  never  escape  from  this  bondage 
of  poverty,  of  shallowness,  of  success  withheld 
and  hope  unrealised.  Sometimes  she  told  herself, 
laughingly,  that  a  tragedy  of  life  would  be  the 
best  gift  she  could  ask  of  Destiny.  She  rebelled 
ever  against  monotony — and,  rebelling,  was  the 
greater  slave. 

Old  Georges  de  Berthier  drank  his  tea  sup  by 
sup  with  his  spoon,  and  when  he  had  pushed  the 
cup  from  him,  he  lighted  a  Russian  cigarette  and 


4 

began  to  talk  about  the  evening  to  come.  Seated 
there,  deep  in  a  low  arm-chair,  with  the  redden- 
ing sunlight  striking  upon  his  long  grey  hair, 
and  his  spectacles  set  high  upon  his  little,  up- 
turned nose,  he  looked  for  all  the  world  like  some 
lilliputian  ogre  come  to  play  the  role  of  beast  to 
the  graceful  girl,  who  stood  at  the  piano  listen- 
ing to  his  theories,  as  she  had  listened  a  thousand 
times  before  that  day,  and  must  listen  again  un- 
til the  finger  of  her  Fate  should  point  some  bet- 
ter way  or  terminate  the  audience  forever. 

"I'm  glad  they're  playing  The  Huguenots, 
Feo.  We're  Huguenots  ourselves,  you  know. 
Some  day,  when  you  begin  to  understand  how 
to  use  that  voice  of  yours,  we'll  go  to  Mornay 
and  see  the  old  castle  where  the  Count  lived. 
That  won't  be  long,  if  you  play  your  cards  well. 
Never  forget  that  one  of  your  great-grandfathers 
was  Eugene  of  Mornay.  I  could  call  myself 
Count  to-morrow  if  I  chose.  People  here  would 
laugh.  They  always  do  at  broken-down  gentle- 
men." 

A  shadow  of  pity  passed  over  the  girl's  face. 

"They  do  not  laugh  at  the  broken-down  gen- 
tleman until  he  asks  them  to,  father.  I  shouldn't 
care  to  go  to  Mornay.  It  would  be  like  opening 
a  purse  which  once  held  the  money  you  have 
spent.  After  all,  we  can  get  on  very  well  as  we 
are.  People  wouldn't  think  more  of  you  if  you 


THE   SINGER  5 

were  a  Count.  There  are  too  many  about  nowa- 
days." 

"  There  are  too  many  of  all  sorts,  my  child. 
Look  at  the  opera.  A  voice  like  yours  would 
have  spelt  a  fortune  twenty  years  ago.  To-day 
it  means  a  ten-line  part  and  five  pounds  a  week. 
Unless  you  can  make  yourself  famous  by  bawling 
Wagner  so  loud  that  people  cannot  hear  the 
trumpets,  you  may  as  well  go  and  sew  dresses ! 
For  myself,  I  hate  the  name  of  Wagner.  A  poor, 
pitiful,  resourceless,  spiteful,  brass-headed  adven- 
turer !  The  world  has  gone  mad.  Some  day  it 
will  wake  up  and  remember  the  others — Mozart, 
Bellini,  Donizetti — Bizet.  Ah,  my  poor  Bizet, 
that  they  should  forget  you !  " 

Feo  was  accustomed  to  the  outburst.  She  ig- 
nored it,  and  began  to  turn  over  the  pages  of 
The  Huguenots.  Anon,  she  sang  in  a  rich,  low 
voice  which  flooded  the  room  and  the  house  with 
a  sweet  cord  of  music,  harmonious  lingering, 
divine  to  one  who  listened  as  the  poor  clerk  in 
his  garret  above.  Never  had  such  a  voice  been 
heard  in  that  house.  All  the  romantic  tempera- 
ment, cloaked  by  the  veil  of  poverty,  all  the 
craving  for  the  scenes  and  faces  of  her  dreams, 
seemed  to  be  spoken  in  her  song.  The  music 
transformed  her.  She  lived  in  another  world,,  a 
world  of  courts  and  palaces  and  mighty  rooms, 
a  world  of  princes  and  of  nobles.  When  she 


6 

ceased,  she  sat  for  some  moments  with  flushed 
cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes  and  bosom  heaving. 
She  did  not  see  the  shabby  room,  the  gathering 
twilight,  the  little  eyes  of  the  selfish  old  man.  A 
voice  spoke  to  her,  though  no  other  heard  the 
voice.  It  was  the  voice  of  the  man  she  had  loved ; 
and  he  had  forgotten  her,  she  said. 

Old  Georges  de  Berthier  nodded  his  head  to  the 
music,  and  then  took  up  his  evening  paper. 
"  That  is  melody,"  he  said  decisively ;  "  what  we 
get  in  our  theatres  is  a  part  for  the  trombone. 
Continue  to  sing  like  that,  and  your  five  pounds 
a  week  will  become  two  hundred.  There  are  no 
voices  nowadays.  This  man  "Wagner  has  ruined 
them  all.  When  Donizetti  wrote,  people  who 
could  not  sing  were  ashamed  to  show  their  faces 
over  the  footlights.  They  brazen  it  out  to-day, 
and  if  they  are  louder  than  the  trumpets,  the 
world  says  Us.  You  have  the  old  qualities.  I 
wish  I  could  come  and  hear  you  to-night,  but  it 
is  raining,  and  you  know  that  I  never  go  out  when 
it  is  raining.  Perhaps  you  had  better  take  a  cab. 
We  cannot  afford  it,  but  it  is  necessary  that  I 
should  make  sacrifices  until  the  good  day  comes. 
I  will  dine  at  eight  o'clock." 

Feo  scarcely  heard  him.  His  strange  econo- 
mies, cheek  by  jowl  with  his  reckless  generosity 
to  those  who  had  no  claim  upon  him,  were  so 
much  a  part  of  her  daily  life  that  she  had  ceased 


THE  SINGER  7 

to  think  about  them.  JSTor  would  she  remember 
that  the  five  pounds  a  week,  which  must  suffice 
for  his  luxuries  and  her  necessity,  were  her  own 
earnings,  the  reward  of  days  and  nights  of  cease- 
less toil,  of  wanderings  in  many  lands,  of  privation 
often,  of  hope  deferred  until  the  heart  wearied 
and  the  spirit  failed.  All  his  fine  promises  fell 
upon  ears  which  the  monotony  of  talent  unrecog- 
nised had  closed  to  the  whispers  of  ambition. 
She  did  not  believe  that  the  future  could  be  other 
than  the  past  had  been.  She  could  not  con- 
template a  gift  even  of  her  womanhood.  The 
romance  of  her  life  was  done  with.  She  had  left 
it  in  Yienna,  in  the  gardens  of  the  Prater  there ; 
it  remained  a  sweet  memory  of  stolen  hours 
when  her  lover  had  gone  with  her  to  the  wooded 
hills  of  the  Danube  and  together  they  had  lived 
the  love  dream  which  never  might  be  aught  but 
a  dream.  For  the  rest,  she  must  work  and  be 
silent  in  this  gloomy  city.  It  might  have  been 
different — but  the  "  might  have  been  "  she  refused 
to  deceive  herself  with. 

Half-past  seven  o'clock  was  striking  when  the 
maid  brought  a  cab  to  the  door,  and  Feo  put  on 
her  cloak  to  go  to  the  opera.  Her  father  was 
still  reading  his  paper,  and  when  she  stooped  to 
kiss  him,  he  had  an  item  of  news  for  her,  which 
he  told  with  relish,  as  one  who  had  guessed  her 
story. 


8 

"  You  remember  that  fellow  Jerome — the 
Prince  of  Maros — who  used  to  corne  every  day 
when  we  were  in  the  Steinstrasse  at  Vienna ! 
Well,  he's  in  Paris,  they  say.  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  he  comes  to  London.  But,  of  course,  he  won't 
call  on  us.  These  people  never  do  unless  it  suits 
them,  and  you  took  care  that  it  shouldn't  suit. 
There — I  don't  complain.  No  good  could  have 
come  of  it.  You  were  quite  right,  though  some 
would  say  you  were  wrong." 

He  tossed  the  paper  to  her,  and  she  took  it  up 
with  trembling  fingers.  There  was  so  little  light 
in  the  room  that  he  could  not  see  the  flush  upon 
her  cheek  nor  the  tears  gathering  in  her  eyes. 
And,  unconscious  of  all  that  the  name  meant  to 
her,  he  continued  brutally  - 

"  A  clever  woman  would  have  married  him.  It 
would  not  have  been  recognised, — but  what  does 
recognition  matter  if  you  have  a  fine  house  to 
live  in  and  good  clothes  for  your  back  ?  There 
are  twenty  princes  morganatically  married  in 
Europe  to-day.  You  might  have  added  one  to 
the  number — if  you  had  wished.  I  do  not  com- 
plain of  your  decision.  I  never  complain.  I  am 
always  ready  to  make  sacrifices  for  my  child. 
She  knows  that,  and  will  remember  it." 

Feo  put  the  paper  down  and  drew  her  hood 
about  her  face.  The  old  man's  words  seemed  so 
many  insults  cast  in  her  face.  She  scarce  knew 


A  CUIRASSIER  OF  THE  GUARD     11 

He  remembered  the  day  when  her  girlish  na- 
ivete had  promised  success  beyond  the  measure  of 
his  hopes.  The  life,  the  spirit,  the  charm  of  her 
singing  and  acting  had  been  the  inducement  for 
him  to  leave  Vienna  and  to  tempt  fate  in  the 
greater  world  of  London.  It  was  an  irony  past 
endurance  that  his  child  should  lose  these  powers 
of  her  youth  so  soon  as  she  had  quitted  Austria. 
No  longer  could  he  pose  as  the  tutor  of  one  who 
added  the  merits  of  a  superb  spirit  to  a  voice 
which  compelled  recognition.  She  had  become 
a  woman.  A  month  had  aged  her  beyond  belief. 
Impressarios  shook  their  heads  and  said,  "  She  is 
clever,  but  she  is  not  gay,  my  friend ;  she  must 
learn  how  to  act."  He  remembered  the  days 
in  Vienna,  and  the  very  remembrance  enraged 
him. 

He  dined  alone,  sipping  his  wine  with  satisfac- 
tion and  pondering  upon  the  problem  which  was 
now  his  daily  trouble.  After  all,  five  pounds  a 
week  were  not  to  be  despised.  Feo  would  do 
better  by  and  by,  and  they  would  go  to  Paris. 
He  remembered  that  the  clever  poor  man  may 
dine  almost  as  well  as  the  ignorant  rich  in  that 
city  of  gastronomic  cunning.  To  the  happiness 
of  his  daughter  he  gave  no  thought.  Women 
were  incomprehensible  creatures.  Ask  them  to 
laugh,  and  they  will  cry  for  the  mere  pleasure 
of  disappointing  you.  Feo  was  sulking  now — 


12 

throwing  herself  away,  committing  artistic  sui- 
cide. He  would  say  nothing  about  it.  He 
would  flatter,  cajole  her.  She  would  weary  of 
the  role,  and  the  old  days  would  come  back 
again. 

Thus  he  argued,  sitting  in  his  great  chair  with 
the  evening  papers  in  his  lap  and  the  red  wine  at 
his  elbow.  He  had  few  friends  in  London,  nor 
did  he  seek  friends.  Men  about  the  house  were 
a  danger  he  would  not  invite  at  this  stage. 
Success  must  first  be  won;  the  subtler  combat 
would  come  later.  Feo,  after  all,  was  a  woman. 
It  would  be  a  disaster  if  she  should  discover  her 
womanhood  now  when  she  was  but  an  obscurity 
— a  maid-of-all-work,  so  to  speak,  at  Covent 
Garden.  Such  a  disaster  might  send  him, 
Georges  de  Berthier,  begging  for  his  very  bread. 
He  shut  his  snuff-box  with  a  snap,  when  he 
thought  of  such  a  possibility.  Life  was  very 
cruel  to  old  men,  he  thought. 

There  was  little  news  in  the  paper,  and  such 
as  it  was  it  had  no  interest  for  him.  He  cared 
nothing  for  politics ;  he  had  failed  in  his  own  art 
as  a  pianist,  and  to  read  of  other  men's  success 
enraged  him.  Somehow,  he  knew  not  why,  he 
found  himself  turning  again  and  again  to  that 
page  of  social  gossip  wherein  the  movements  of 
Prince  Jerome  of  Maros  were  told  in  a  brief 
paragraph  concerning  Vienna  and  the  Austrian 


A  CUIRASSIER  OF  THE  GUARD      13 

Court.  Feo  had  met  the  Prince  at  the  opera- 
house  in  Vienna  in  the  winter  of  the  previous 
year.  He  was  then  a  young  man  of  twenty -two, 
the  second  son  of  the  Archduke  Frederick, 
accounted  by  the  women  the  handsomest  man 
-in  Vienna,  a  soldier  of  strangely  romantic  and 
ardent  temperament,  an  officer  of  the  Cuirassiers 
of  the  Guard,  and  a  great  favourite  with  the  old 
Emperor.  Music  had  ever  been  a  passion  with 
him,  and  music  took  him  often  to  the  opera  and 
to  Richter's  house.  There  he  had  first  seen  Feo, 
and  almost  from  the  moment  of  his  presentation 
he  had  taken  no  pains  to  conceal  his  infatuation. 
So  quickly  did  the  attachment  ripen  that  many 
shook  their  heads  and  feared  a  scandal.  The 
more  malicious  tongues  openly  proclaimed  the 
evil  they  desired.  It  was  said  in  the  purlieus  of 
the  Court  that  the  Prince  was  young  and  reck- 
less enough  to  stake  even  his  inheritance  and  his 
future  for  the  sake  of  a  woman's  face.  News  of 
the  affair  came  at  last  even  to  the  Archduke 
who  dealt  with  the  matter  summarily,  and  would 
hear  neither  argument  nor  protest.  Prince  Je- 
rome was  sent  upon  a  mission  to  Croatia.  The 
directors  of  the  opera  were  advised  that  it  was 
impolitic  any  longer  to  avail  themselves  of  Ma- 
demoiselle Feo's  services.  Georges  de  Berthier 
received  a  strong  hint  that  his  daughter  would  do 
better  in  Paris.  He  accepted  the  inevitable,  and 


14 

quitted  Vienna.  Yet  he  had  never  ceased  to  re- 
gret that  step.  "  She  might  have  married  him 
if  she  had  been  a  clever  woman,"  he  argued. 
Deep  down  in  his  heart  he  may  have  contem- 
plated other  possibilities.  The  borderland  be- 
tween selfishness  and  crime  is  often  but  ill  de- 
fined. He  remembered  that  Jerome  was  a  cousin 
of  the  Hapsburgs — royal  sins  are  written  often 
in  invisible  ink ;  the  world  does  not  ask  that 
kings  and  princes  shall  read  the  commandments 
au  pied  de  la  lettre.  His  daughter  would  have 
been  very  rich,  at  least.  She  would  have  brought 
content  to  his  own  life. 

He  brooded  upon  these  things  as  he  puffed  at 
an  old  briar  pipe  and  read  the  paragraph  from 
the  first  line  again.  When  Mary  came  in  at  ten 
o'clock  to  announce  a  visitor,  he  did  not  hear 
her,  and  she  repeated  her  message  twice  before 
he  put  the  paper  down.  Few  came  to  see  one 
whom  the  world  had  long  forgotten.  He  antici- 
pated some  message  from  the  theatre.  Feo  was 
ill — in  just  such  a  cruelty  as  that  would  his  des- 
tiny delight. 

"  Who  is  it — who  wants  me  ?  Where  has  the 
person  come  from  ?  You  know  that  I  see  no- 
body— at  this  time." 

The  girl  began  to  stammer  her  explanations ; 
but  she  had  made  nothing  of  them  when  the 
stranger,  whoever  he  was,  stood  suddenly  in  the 


CAPTAIN    LAMBERU 


A  CUIRASSIER  OF  THE  GUARD      15 

doorway,  and  bowed  with  great  deference  to  the 
astonished  Berthier. 

"  You  are  Mr.  Georges  de  Berthier,"  he  said  in 
English  which  betrayed  but  a  charm  of  accent ; 
"  I  am  Captain  Otto  Lamberg,  and  I  have  come 
from  Yienna  to  see  you." 

Berthier,  amazed  beyond  expression,  put  on 
his  glasses  with  maladroit  fingers  and  stared 
awkwardly  at  his  guest.  He  beheld  a  man 
whose  dress  was  perfect,  whose  age  apparently 
could  not  be  less  than  thirty-five  nor  more  than 
forty  years,  whose  forehead  was  slightly  bald, 
who  wore  an  eyeglass,  and  carried  a  cane  with  a 
gold  and  amber  head.  A  soldier  self-confessed, 
this  man,  he  said,  was  accustomed  to  be  at  his 
ease  wherever  and  with  whomsoever  he  might 
find  himself.  And  he  came  from  Vienna !  A 
hundred  hopes  of  his  visit  sent  the  blood  tingling 
through  the  old  man's  veins. 

"  Captain  Lamberg,"  he  stammered  nervously, 
"  will  you  please  to  take  a  chair  ?  My  daughter 
is  at  the  opera.  "We  are  quite  alone.  I  must 
apologise  for  this  poor  room.  Art  has  strange 
homes." 

The  Austrian  pooh-poohed  him  with  an  airy 
gesture. 

"  Your  name,  sir,  is  honoured  wherever  men 
worthy  to  honour  it  are  found.  I  shall  not  soon 
forget  this  visit  to  your  house." 


16 

He  set  his  hat  upon  the  floor  and  drew  a  chair 
to  the  table.  Berthier,  suspicious  already  because 
of  the  compliment,  did  not  fail  to  notice  that  his 
guest  wore  the  ribbon  of  an  Austrian  order  in 
his  buttonhole,  and  that  an  opal  pin  of  great 
beauty  was  half  concealed  by  his  black  silk  scarf. 
The  man,  in  his  turn,  was  telling  himself  that  the 
compliment  was  a  mistake,  and  that  he  must  go 
to  work  another  way. 

"  It  is  my  privilege  to  be  here,"  he  went  on  very 
affably ;  "  but  you  do  not  wish  to  waste  your 
time  in  listening  to  compliments  which  may  be 
well  spoken  or  may  be  the  vanities  of  a  stranger. 
I  trust  that  we  shall  be  good  friends.  You,  at 
least,  will  not  easily  imagine  the  reason  of  my 
visit  ?  " 

Berthier,  who  continued  to  stand  by  the  fire- 
place, answered  a  little  curtly  — 

"  I  am  entirely  unable  to  imagine  it,  Captain 
Lamberg." 

"  As,  naturally,  you  would  be  since  I  come  from 
one  whose  name  you  must  have  forgotten,  and 
whose  object  in  sending  me  you  would  never 
guess." 

"  You  speak,  then,  of  a  stranger  ?  " 

"  I  speak  of  Prince  Jerome." 

He  did  not  look  at  the  old  man  when  he  ut- 
tered the  name,  but  cast  his  eyes  down  upon  the 
paper  and  fidgeted  with  the  yellow  gloves  in  his 


A  CUIRASSIER  OF  THE  GUARD     IT 

hand.  Berthier,  in  his  turn,  betrayed  no  sur- 
prise whatever.  The  thousand  hopes  and  chances 
which  such  a  name  could  suggest  to  his  imagi- 
nation did  not  move  him  even  to  a  gesture  of  the 
hand. 

"  I  remember  Prince  Jerome  well.  He  did  me 
the  honour  to  recognise  my  daughter's  talent 
while  we  were  in  Vienna.  His  kindness  drove 
us  from  the  city.  I  cannot  imagine  what  mes- 
sage he  can  wish  to  send  us." 

The  answer  was  immediate  and  frank. 

"The  message  which  I  bring  to  you  is  not 
difficult  to  understand,  Mr.  Berthier.  You  have 
read  the  evening  papers,  I  see,  and  I  cannot  sup- 
pose that  you  have  overlooked  that  which  con- 
cerns us  most  nearly — the  Prince's  intended  visit 
to  Paris." 

Berthier  took  up  the  Gazette,  and  pointed  to 
the  paragraph. 

"  The  paper  says  that  he  is  in  Paris  now — you 
say  that  he  intends  to  go  there ;  what  am  I  to 
believe  ?  " 

The  Austrian  bit  his  lip.  He  had  not  reckoned 
upon  such  an  encounter. 

"  Let  us  understand  each  other  better,"  he  said 
quickly ;  "  I  am  of  the  household  of  the  Arch- 
duke Frederick.  Admit,  at  least,  that  my  infor- 
mation is  better  than  that  of  a  society  gossip  in 
London. 


18  FfiO 

He  waited  shrewdly  for  his  answer,  while 
Berthier,  breathing  heavily,  regarded  him  closely 
through  his  glasses. 

"  You  come,  then,  from  the  Archduke  Freder- 
ick. It  was  the  Archduke  who  compelled  the 
directors  of  the  opera  to  terminate  my  daughter's 
engagement.  It  was  the  Archduke  who  shut  the 
doors  of  many  houses  to  us,  and  sent  us,  paupers, 
to  London  again.  I  am  curious  to  know  what 
message  he  can  send  to  me." 

"  He  sends  none.  He  does  not  know  why  I 
am  in  London." 

"  And  the  reason,  Captain — the  reason  of  his 
ignorance  ?  " 

"  My  friendship  for  his  son." 

"  Which  prompts  you  to  forget  the  debt  you 
owe  to  the  father." 

"  Certainly,  if  there  were  a  debt ;  but  there  is 
none.  I  am  the  aide-de-camp  to  the  Archduke, 
it  is  true ;  but  the  position  is  an  illustration  of  the 
excellent  advantages  of  a  vicious  education.  My 
father  lost  his  fortune  in  an  attempt  to  improve 
the  breed  of  Hungarian  horses  by  the  importa- 
tion of  English  thoroughbreds  into  Austria.  The 
Archduke  Frederick,  unable  to  profit  by  his  ex- 
ample, is  now  engaged  upon  a  similar  enterprise. 
As  one  who  knows  all  that  is  to  be  known  about 
the  rascality  of  our  race-course,  I  am  invaluable 
to  him.  But  that  does  not  make  me  less  the 


A  CUIRASSIER  OF  THE  GUARD     19 

friend  of  his  son,  who  is  a  brother  officer,  and 
one  of  the  truest  gentlemen  in  Vienna — as  you 
will  presently  discover." 

He  spoke  as  one  who  desired  to  tell  the  whole 
of  his  story  without  fear  or  concealment.  Ber- 
thier  heard  him  to  the  end,  and  when  he  had 
stood  a  little  while  debating  it,  his  manner 
changed  and  became  one  almost  of  servility. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "we  shall  understand  each 
other  very  well  by  and  by,  Captain.  And  I  am 
very  rude  and  inhospitable.  Pray  let  me  offer 
you  a  cigar  and  a  glass  of  wine." 

He  found  the  cigar,  a  very  dry  and  old  one,  in 
the  bottom  of  the  china  pot  upon  the  mantel- 
shelf. The  stranger  smoked  it  with  the  air  of 
fine  enjoyment,  though  inwardly  he  cursed  the 
occasion  and  the  giver. 

"  Tobacco  is  one  of  my  vices,"  he  said  affably ; 
"I  am  what  Bismarck  called  a  ring-smoker. 
When  you  are  at  my  house  in  Paris,  I  will  give 
you  one  of  the  cigars  that  the  Emperor  always 
smokes." 

"  A  safe  promise,  since  I  am  as  likely  to  go  to 
your  house  in  Paris  as  to  Japan." 

"As  you  shall  please  when  you  have  heard 
me.  Possibly  the  decision  will  rest  with  your 
daughter.  She  is,  after  all,  the  one  to  say.  The 
Prince  would  advance  no  word  that  might  per- 
suade her  against  her  will." 


20  FfiO 

Berthier  set  down  the  decanter  quickly. 

"  Let  us  come  to  the  point,  Captain,"  he  ex- 
claimed ;  "  what  is  the  proposition  you  wish  to 
make  to  me  ?  " 

Captain  Lamberg  took  the  cigar  from  his 
mouth,  and  answered  quietly  — 

"  The  simplest  proposition  in  the  world — that 
you  and  Miss  de  Berthier  come  to  my  house  in 
the  Avenue  Marceau  at  Paris  as  my  guests  dur- 
ing the  month  that  the  Prince  of  Maros  is  in  the 
city." 

Berthier's  heart  beat  fast,  but  some  moments 
passed  before  he  spoke  again. 

"  The  Prince  desires,  then,  to  meet  my  daugh- 
ter again  ?  " 

"  It  is  his  daily  desire." 

"  He  knows  that  I  can  only  receive  him  as  a 
man  of  honour  ?  " 

"  He  is  perfectly  aware  of  it." 

"  There  are  conditions  attached  to  your  hospi- 
tality ?  " 

"  The  most  trifling." 

"  Ha !  I  thought  there  would  be  conditions. 
Be  good  enough  to  name  them,  Captain." 

"  That  you  permit  no  one,  not  even  your  most 
intimate  friend,  to  know  of  this  visit." 

"  Are  you  ashamed  of  my  daughter's  acquaint- 
ance ?  " 

"  I  am  not  ashamed,  I  am  prudent.    A  whisper 


A  CUIKASSIER  OF  THE  GUAKD     21 

of  this  in  Vienna — and,  must  we  imagine  the  con- 
sequences ?  " 

"There  is  no  need,  Captain.  When  do  you 
wish  us  to  leave  England?" 

"  By  the  mail  to-morrow  night — if  your  daugh- 
ter's engagements  permit." 

"They  shall  permit.  I  will  make  it  my  busi- 
ness to  see  the  director  in  the  morning.  Mean- 
while, I  remember  that  we  are  strangers.  You 
may  be  the  person  you  pretend  to  be  ;  you  may 
be  an  adventurer.  As  one  who  has  seen  much 
of  the  world,  I  make  no  apology  in  asking  for 
your  credentials.  You  have  letters,  papers — 
something  to  substantiate  this  story." 

Captain  Lamberg  took  a  case  from  his  pocket 
and  began  to  twist  the  rubber  band  of  it.  A 
curious  smile  hovered  upon  his  face. 

"  Do  you  generally  ask  for  papers  from  those 
whose  houses  you  are  about  to  visit,  Mr. 
Berthier  ?  " 

"  I  visit  no  houses  under  circumstances  such  as 
these." 

"  Then  I  must  make  the  experience  a  pleasant 
one.  Here  is  a  letter  from  Prince  Jerome — 
there  is  my  passport ;  add  it  to  my  commission 
in  the  Cuirassiers  of  the  Guard,  and  my  permis- 
sion that  you  go  to-morrow  to  the  Austrian  Em- 
bassy and  ask  what  they  know  of  me,  and  that  is 
all  I  can  do  for  you." 


22  FfiO 

He  tossed  the  papers  on  the  table,  and  watched 
the  old  man's  trembling  lingers  as  they  held  the 
documents  to  the  light.  When  five  minutes  had 
passed,  Berthier  put  the  papers  down  and  held 
out  his  hand. 

"  I  will  go  to  Paris  with  you,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   INTRIGUE 

CAPTAIN  LAMBEKG  quitted  the  house  as  the 
clocks  were  striking  a  quarter  to  twelve.  He 
lit  a  new  cigar  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  the 
light  of  his  match  betrayed  a  face  which  spoke 
of  much  satisfaction.  He  knew  that  he  had 
played  for  a  great  stake,  and  he  was  sure  that 
he  had  won. 

"  A  very,  very  simple  affair,"  was  his  thought 
as  he  stood  irresolute  a  moment  upon  the  pave- 
ment before  the  mansions.  "  These  old  men  are 
always  the  best  to  deal  with.  They  think  they 
are  clever,  and  you  know  exactly  what  questions 
they  will  ask.  To-morrow  we  shall  hear  what 
the  daughter  has  to  say." 

The  reflection  pleased  him,  and  he  was  about 
to  walk  on,  when  a  cab  stopped  at  the  kerb,  and 
Feo,  with  the  exciting  strains  of  Meyerbeer  still 
in  her  ears,  jumped  lightly  to  the  pavement  and 
began  to  search  for  her  purse.  A  lamp  marked 
the  place,  and  the  merry  wind  played  with  her 
white  cloak  and  with  her  pretty  hair,  and  showed 
the  graceful  outline  of  her  figure.  She  was  not 
aware  that  a  man  watched  her  as  she  stood,  and 

23 


24  FfiO 

she  passed  into  the  house  unconscious  of  his  pres- 
ence ;  but  he,  amazed  at  the  apparition,  continued 
to  gaze  after  her  for  many  minutes,  forgetful  of 
time  and  place,  and  the  success  he  had  so  lately 
won. 

"  Good  God ! "  he  exclaimed,  in  a  burst  of  very 
real  astonishment,  "  that  can't  be  the  woman ! " 

The  doubt  perplexed  him.  For  a  moment  he 
entertained  the  idea  of  returning  to  Berthier's 
apartment  and  finding  some  excuse  as  he  went ; 
but  the  hazard  of  the  proceeding  was  not  to  be 
hidden  from  him ;  and  when  he  had  reflected  a 
little  while,  he  abandoned  the  project,  and  turned 
instead  to  the  cabstand  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  way. 

"  The  Savoy  Hotel — a  shilling  more  if  you  go 
fast." 

It  was  half-past  twelve  when  he  entered  the 
hotel,  the  hour  of  the  exodus  from  the  restau- 
rant ;  but  he  nodded  only  to  such  amongst  the 
chattering  throngs  as  he  knew,  and  went  straight 
to  his  private  apartments  on  the  second  floor. 
Thither  he  summoned  a  waiter,  and  having  or- 
dered whisky  and  some  cigars,  he  asked  for  one 
who  had  awaited  his  return  with  impatience. 

"  Is  Count  Horowitz  in  the  hotel  ?  " 

"  I  will  see,  sir." 

"  Let  him  know  that  I  have  returned.  If  he 
wishes  it,  I  will  come  to  his  room." 


THE  INTRIGUE  25 

Count  Horowitz  was  a  white-haired  diplomatist 
of  sixty  in  the  service  of  the  Austrian  Embassy 
in  London.  He  came  at  once  when  the  message 
was  delivered,  and  the  greeting  between  the  two 
betrayed  their  mutual  interests.  They  spoke  rap- 
idly and  in  low  tones.  A  rare  burst  of  laughter 
implied  that  the  affair  they  discussed  could  some- 
times amuse  them. 

"  I  had  no  idea  that  things  would  go  so  well," 
said  the  Count,  as  he  lighted  a  cigar  and  settled 
himself  in  an  arm-chair.  "  Any  other  would  have 
made  a  mess  of  it.  The  father  is  the  enemy.  If 
he  had  remained  in  London  while  the  boy  was 
here,  it  is  impossible  to  say  what  would  have 
happened." 

"  That  is  a  large  compliment  to  an  adventuress, 
is  it  not  ?  " 

"  If  you  like.  I  am  not  concerned  with  her. 
The  main  point  is  that  they  are  going.  You 
know  the  Prince  as  well  as  I  do.  He  has  for- 
gotten the  woman's  name  by  this  time.  He 
would  remember  it  again — take  seven  new  devils 
into  his  house,  so  to  speak — if  he  saw  her  here  in 
London.  And,  of  course,  he  would  see  her.  The 
royal  box  is  at  his  disposal.  He  would  see  her 
two  or  three  times  a  week." 

He  uttered  the  words  as  though  they  implied 
the  greatest  misfortune  which  could  overtake 
him.  An  old  servant  of  the  Emperor,  a  noble  in 


26 

a  country  where  nobility  remains  what  it  was  two 
centuries  ago,  this  madness  of  Prince  Jerome's, 
the  Emperor's  cousin,  was  a  subject  he  could 
not  discuss  with  patience.  Captain  Lamberg,  on 
the  other  hand,  did  not  permit  the  emotions  to 
trouble  him  at  all.  He  had  come  to  London  to 
serve  the  interests  of  one  who  would  know  how 
to  pay  him  for  the  service.  To  him  personally  it 
did  not  matter  a  straw  if  the  Archduke's  son 
married  all  the  singers  in  the  city. 

"  You  take  it  very  earnestly,  Count,"  he  said, 
helping  himself  from  the  decanter  and  passing 
it;  "for  myself  I  regard  the  matter  as  already 
settled.  These  people  will  go  to  Paris  to-mor- 
row. I  shall  put  them  off  with  excuses  until  the 
Prince  has  returned  to  Vienna.  The  old  man 
will  ultimately  accept  the  Archduke's  offer,  and 
that  will  be  the  end  of  it.  There  is  only  one 
point.  The  story  which  keeps  them  to  Paris 
must  be  well  told  and  plausible.  If  they  go  out 
into  the  streets,  they  will  read  the  papers,  and 
reading  the  papers  will  spell  the  first  train  back 
to  Calais.  That  would  be  a  disaster !  I  do  not 
think  it  will  come  about." 

"  You  will  take  every  precaution  possible  to  see 
that  it  does  not.  There  are  our  people  at  the 
Embassy.  If  you  need  special  help,  the  police 
will  assist  you.  Any  measures  are  to  be  justified 
in  dealing  with  a  woman  of  this  kind.  Be  cer- 


THE  INTRIGUE  27 

tain  of  one  thing — we  shall  not  call  you  to  ac- 
count if  the  measures  are  severe.  The  gratitude 
of  the  family  will  be  in  proportion  to  your  suc- 
cess. If  you  want  money,  it  is  here  for  you  to 
any  reasonable  amount.  As  far  as  I  can  gather, 
the  girl  has  no  friends  in  London  except  a  young 
man  who  has  just  left  the  University  of  Cam- 
bridge, and  who  is  not  likely  to  make  many 
inquiries  after  her.  His  name  is  Leslie  Drum- 
mond.  Remember  it  if  there  be  the  occasion. 
I  shall  expect  a  letter  every  day  while  the  Prince 
is  here." 

"  Your  wishes  are  my  orders.  I  have  had  ex- 
perience in  the  work,  as  I  need  not  tell  you.  This 
is  not  quite  the  same  thing,  if  I  am  to  judge  by 
the  woman's  face.  She  passed  into  the  house  as 
I  came  out.  I  should  have  said  she  was  a  lady. 
Certainly,  she  is  a  very  pretty  woman." 

"  She  must  be  that.  Those  who  knew  her  in 
Vienna  speak  of  her  flatteringly.  That  she  is 
an  adventuress  of  an  uncommon  kind  I  readily 
admit.  You  will  need  all  your  talent.  I  shall 
be  very  glad  to  hear  that  you  have  left  London." 

"  You  will  hear  it  to-morrow  night  at  eight 
o'clock." 

His  manner  showed  that  he  had  no  doubt  of  it. 
When,  by  and  by,  the  Count  left  him,  he  turned 
to  his  bed  as  though  the  day's  work  had  been  no 
more  adventurous  than  a  day  in  his  quarters  at 


28 

Vienna.  After  all,  these  secret  missions,  involv- 
ing as  they  did  the  closest  confidence,  were  in 
themselves  a  compliment.  He,  Otto  Lamberg, 
had  been  sent  upon  many  of  them  during  his 
strange  career.  One  more  need  provoke  neither 
scruple  nor  hesitation.  He  was  about  to  save  a 
reckless  young  man  from  an  adventuress.  If 
ever  duplicity  were  to  be  justified,  it  was  in  such 
a  case.  Moreover,  he  was  not  the  man  who  cared 
a  snap  of  the  finger  for  justification. 

And  so  he  slept  upon  it,  while  Feo  in  her  room 
dreamed  of  the  blue  waters  of  the  Danube,  and 
of  the  days  of  sunshine  which  once  had  taught 
her  the  joy  of  life  and  the  meaning  of  her  youth. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  MAIL  TO   PAEIS 

THEY  were  ringing  the  warning  bell  for  the 
Paris  mail  at  five  minutes  to  eight  on  the  even- 
ing following  upon  Otto  Lamberg's  visit  to 
Berthier's  flat,  when  a  young  man,  whose  height 
caused  remark  even  in  such  a  place,  shouldered 
his  way  to  the  barrier  of  the  main-line  platform 
at  Charing  Cross,  and  asked  the  ticket-inspector 
to  admit  him. 

"I  want  to  say  good-bye  to  some  one,"  he 
exclaimed  bluntly ;  "  can't  you  do  it  for  me  ?  " 

The  inspector  smiled. 

"  If  it's  a  lady,  I  don't  doubt  I  could  do  it,  sir ; 
but  it's  against  the  rules." 

"  The  rules  be  hanged  ! — here's  five  shillings 
for  you.  Perjure  your  immortal  soul  and  let  me 
through." 

The  inspector  pocketed  the  money,  sternly  re- 
buked a  poor  old  woman  who  desired  to  see  her 
son  into  the  train,  and  resumed  his  normal  occu- 
pation of  clipping  tickets.  The  young  man, 
meanwhile,  marched  quickly  up  the  platform  and 
began  to  peer  into  the  carriages — particularly  the 

89 


30  FfiO 

second-class  carriages — in  search  of  one  whose 
departure  from  London  had  mystified  him  be- 
yond hope  of  understanding. 

"She  couldn't  go  first — I  don't  believe  they 
have  the  cash.  The  old  boy  must  have  taken 
some  mad  idea  into  his  head.  She'd  never  go 
without  wishing  me  good-bye — and  she  didn't  say 
a  word  about  it  yesterday.  I  wonder  what  the 
deuce  is  up." 

Such  an  argument  he  repeated  while  the  search 
carried  him  almost  to  the  engine  of  the  train,  and 
discovery  seemed  as  far  off  as  ever.  When  he 
came  at  last  upon  a  reserved  first-class  compart- 
ment and  saw  Feo  herself  standing  at  the  win- 
dow, it  was  difficult  to  say  who  was  the  more 
surprised :  the  girl  at  such  an  encounter,  or  the 
man  at  finding  her  about  to  travel  under  such 
circumstances. 

"  Well,"  he  said  laconically,  for  mere  compli- 
ments or  set  phrases  were  always  beyond  him, 
"  so  I've  run  you  to  earth.  It  was  a  near  thing, 
though — the  man  at  the  gate  wouldn't  let  me 
through." 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  he  held  it  in  an 
iron  grip.  She  was  alone  in  the  carriage,  and 
the  light  striking  down  upon  her  pale  face  added 
to  its  beauties. 

"  We  are  going  to  Paris  for  a  little  while,  my 
father  and  I.  He  is  over  there  at  the  bookstall. 


"  '  WKI.l.,'    UK    SAID     LACONICALLY,     'SO    I    IIAVK    RUN    YOU    TO    KARTH 
AT    LAST.'  " 


THE  MAIL  TO  PAKIS  31 

He  will  be  very  surprised  to  see  you,  Mr.  Drum- 
mond." 

"Oh,  but  I  didn't  come  to  see  him,  Feo — I 
came  to  see  you.  You  know  that  well  enough. 
And  you  were  going  off  without  saying  good-bye 
to  me." 

"  There  was  no  time.  Our  visit  was  only  ar- 
ranged to-day.  I  don't  quite  know  now  why  we 
are  going.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  when  we  are 
coming  back." 

Leslie  Drummond  pulled  his  moustache  vi- 
ciously. 

"  It's  a  d d  mystery  altogether,  then — I 

beg  your  pardon,  Feo — you  must  know  what  I 
think  about  it.  Look  here !  where  are  you  going 
to  stop  ?  " 

She  reflected  a  moment,  and  then  spoke  rapidly 
as  though  wishing  to  anticipate  the  return  of  the 
others. 

"  We  are  stopping  with  a  friend  of  my  father's, 
Captain  Otto  Lamberg,  in  the  Avenue  Marceau  ; 
I  fear  it  is  a  silly  visit  altogether.  Perhaps,  if 
you  are  in  Paris,  you  will  come  and  see  me.  I 
might  be  glad  of  friends  there." 

She  laid  a  little  emphasis  upon  her  words,  and 
slight  as  it  was  he  detected  a  certain  apprehen- 
sion prompting  her  confession.  When  he  looked 
up  quickly,  her  eyes  were  regarding  him  a  little 
pitifully,  he  thought. 


32 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  going  against 
your  will  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  been  consulted  in  the  matter.  My 
father  must  think  that  the  business  is  important, 
for  he  has  wished  me  to  break  my  engagement 
at  the  opera.  Captain  Lamberg  is  an  Austrian. 
He  comes  from  Vienna.  I  have  only  seen  him 
for  five  minutes,  but  I  do  not  like  him.  A  wom- 
an's first  judgment  upon  a  man  is  rarely  wrong." 

A  cloud  passed  over  the  boy's  face.  He  knew 
Feo's  story.  "  We  will  be  comrades,  we  never 
can  be  anything  else,"  she  had  once  said  to  him. 
From  that  moment  everything  that  came  out  of 
Austria  was  hateful  to  him. 

"  It's  that  fellow  over  in  Vienna  again,  Feo. 
You'll  never  forget  him,  though  he'll  forget  you 
quick  enough  when  it  suits  him.  I  shall  cross  to 
Paris  on  Monday  and  look  you  up.  These  for- 
eign beggars  aren't  to  be  trusted  anyway.  I 
wonder  what  you  can  see  in  him." 

"We  must  not  speak  of  that,"  she  said,  "and 
— here  is  my  father,  Mr.  Drummond." 

Old  Georges  de  Berthier,  with  the  Austrian  at 
his  side,  came  up  to  the  carriage  at  the  moment. 
The  captain  had  an  armful  of  books  in  his  hand, 
but  no  newspapers.  Berthier  himself  carried  a 
copy  of  the  Figaro  and  of  a  magazine.  Both 
men  gave  anything  but  a  cordial  welcome  to  the 
companion  whom  Feo  had  found. 


THE  MAIL  TO  PAKIS  33 

"  Ah,  is  that  you,  Mr.  Drummond  ?  They  told 
you  we  were  going,  then  ?  " 

"  I  heard  from  Mary,  your  servant.  She  said 
she  was  not  to  tell  any  one,  but  of  course  I  don't 
count.  Rather  sudden,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Berthier  ?  " 

Captain  Lamberg  hastened  to  intervene. 

"  Present  me  to  your  friend,"  he  said. 

Berthier  introduced  them  curtly. 

"  Captain  Lamberg — Mr.  Leslie  Drummond. 
An  athlete,  Captain ;  he  has  rowed  in  the  boat 
races  here  at  the  University  of  Cambridge." 

The  Austrian,  whose  eyes  were  noting  every 
feature  of  the  lad's  face,  bowed  with  great  cere- 
mony. 

"  I  was  once  a  rower  myself,"  he  exclaimed ; 
"  if  you  come  to  Paris,  do  not  forget  to  visit  my 
house,  Mr.  Drummond.  You  are  fond  of  horses ; 
all  Englishmen  are.  I  have  some  very  good  ones." 

Leslie  laughed  frankly. 

"  Be  careful,  Captain — I  am  often  in  Paris,  and 
may  take  you  at  your  word." 

"Then  I  shall  be  quite  reckless,  Mr.  Drum- 
mond. It  shall  only  be  auf  wiedersehen.  I  think 
they  are  wishing  us  to  go  aboard,  as  the  Ameri- 
cans say." 

Until  this  time  a  certain  nonchalance  charac- 
terised his  utterances ;  but,  without  any  percep- 
tible reason,  his  manner  changed  suddenly,  and 
he  began  to  move  restlessly,  urging  his  compan- 


34: 

ion  to  enter  the  train  and  chatting  at  hazard 
with  Feo.  Leslie,  unaware  altogether  of  the  im- 
portance of  his  news,  remarked  upon  the  arrival 
of  the  mail  from  Paris,  which  was  just  drawing 
up  at  the  other  platform. 

"  It's  late  to-night — you'll  have  a  bad  passage, 
Feo.  Well,  au  revoir.  I  won't  forget." 

The  guard  waved  his  lantern ;  the  engine 
whistled  a  shrill,  dolorous  note ;  the  train  began 
to  move  slowly.  For  an  instant,  Captain  Lam- 
berg  was  wondering  what  was  the  meaning  of 
the  words — "  I  won't  forget."  But  as  he  thought 
upon  them  he  chanced  to  look  at  F6o,  and  the 
pallor  of  her  face  startled  him. 

"Miss  Berthier,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  are  not 
ill?" 

She  looked  him  straight  in  the  face. 

"  I  thought  that  I  saw  the  Prince  of  Maros  in 
that  other  train.  I  could  not  make  a  mistake  ?  " 

The  two  men  exchanged  a  quick  glance,  but 
the  Austrian  answered  her. 

"  You  were  mistaken,"  he  said.  "  The  Prince 
was  not  in  that  train.  He  is  now  on  his  way  to 
Paris,  where  we  are  going  to  meet  him." 

From  the  other  platform  at  the  same  moment, 
Prince  Jerome  of  Maros  stepped  into  a  carriage 
which  was  to  take  him  to  Buckingham  Palace. 
He  had  arrived  in  London  a  week  before  his 
friends  at  the  Austrian  Embassy  expected  him. 


CHAPTEE  Y 

THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  AVENUE  MAECEAU 

FEO  had  left  London  on  the  last  Friday  in  May, 
and  Drummond  awaited  a  letter  from  her  with 
some  impatience.  Boyishly,  he  was  sure  that  she 
would  write  to  him,  though  she  had  never  writ- 
ten before,  and  he  did  not  even  know  what  her 
handwriting  was  like.  Six  months  before  that 
day  he  had  seen  her  for  the  first  time,  when  she 
was  touring  with  the  Carl  Kosa  Company,  and 
visited  the  Koyal  Theatre  at  Cambridge.  He 
had  been  an  undergraduate  in  his  fifth  year  at 
Jesus  College  then — permitted  so  long  a  resi- 
dence because,  as  the  dean  said,  he  really  owed 
it  to  the  college  to  take  some  sort  of  degree.  He 
heard  Feo  sing  in  several  of  the  older  operas, 
and  once  even  in  Tannhauser,  when  he  envied 
the  lucky  tenor  who  played  the  leading  role,  and 
could  make  a  passionate  appeal  to  so  pretty  a 
Venus.  A  little  stratagem  and  he  obtained  an 
introduction  to  Georges  de  Berthier ;  and  by  the 
surreptitious  aid  of  many  an  expensive  supper- 
party,  purchased  a  temporary  place  in  the  old 
man's  affections.  But  the  cunning  of  the  old 

35 


36 

musician,  and  the  strange  reluctance  of  Feo  to 
accept  his  friendship,  forbade  any  satisfactory 
progress.  He  was  not  romantic  in  the  common 
sense.  An  orphan  of  age,  with  a  capital  in  Eng- 
lish railway  stock  representing  an  income  of  over 
three  thousand  a  year,  he  had  not  been  accus- 
tomed to  wait  for  anything  that  he  wished.  His 
impetuosity  flattered  him  with  the  idea  of  call- 
ing a  cab  and  driving  Feo  to  the  nearest  regis- 
trar. When  old  Berthier  shook  his  head,  and 
muttered  hints  about  youth,  time,  patience,  and 
other  ridiculous  platitudes,  Master  Leslie  swore 
to  himself  in  honest  Anglo-Saxon.  He  could 
have  understood  the  poetry  of  a  flight  to  some 
Eldorado  with  Feo  in  the  carriage  beside  him, 
but  that  romance  which  would  put  another  man 
in  his  place  was  not  to  be  comprehended.  "  A 
woolly-headed  foreigner,  too ! "  he  once  ex- 
claimed to  an  intimate  friend ;  "  she  might  as 
well  have  told  me  that  it  was  a  black  man." 

Feo  went  away  from  Cambridge,  and  her 
father  took  advantage  of  the  occasion  to  flatter 
himself  upon  the  number  of  suppers  and  dinners 
he  had  eaten  at  Leslie's  expense.  "  These  stu- 
dents are  all  in  debt,"  he  argued  wisely ;  "  the 
more  money  they  have,  the  sooner  the  tailors 
will  put  them  into  prison.  This  young  man  says 
that  he  has  three  thousand  pounds  a  year.  He 
gives  three  supper-parties  a  week,  and  each  sup- 


HOUSE  IN  AVENUE  MAECEAU      37 

per-party  costs  ten  pounds.  At  that  rate  the 
tailors  will  have  him  in  five  years'  time.  Be- 
sides, he  is  too  big  and  strong.  We  shall  not 
marry  a  man  who  can  row  a  boat.  The  water 
does  not  agree  with  us !  " 

His  argument  was  lost  upon  Feo,  who  had 
lived  one  romance  and  would  not  contemplate 
another.  The  youth  and  laughter  at  Cambridge 
amused  her,  reminded  her,  perchance,  of  the 
virginal  joy  of  her  own  life  as  youth  and  laughter 
ever  must.  Leslie  Drummond  was  a  good- 
natured  boy.  When  he  followed  her  from  town 
to  town  during  the  Christmas  vacation,  she  told 
him  so ;  promising  him  her  friendship,  and  nar- 
rating for  him  the  story  which  to  her  was  the 
only  story.  Never  before  had  she  spoken  of  that 
secret  of  hers  ;  yet,  she  knew  not  why,  she  could 
tell  it  to  this  sympathetic  English  boy,  and  find 
a  strange  pleasure  of  memory  in  the  recital.  "  If 
you  wish  to  be  my  friend,  never  speak  of  this 
again,"  she  had  said.  Leslie  held  his  tongue, 
but  pursued  her  nevertheless — aimlessly,  dog- 
gedly, ever  unresignedly.  In  angry  moments  he 
beheld  himself  doing  heroic  deeds,  thrashing  the 
man  who  had  robbed  him  of  Feo,  insulting  him, 
calling  him  out  to  leave  his  dead  body  on  the 
ground.  At  saner  intervals,  he  argued  that  she 
would  forget  and  that  he  could  wait.  Her  sweet 
persuasiveness  sent  him  back  to  Cambridge  dur- 


38  FfiO 

ing  that  very  month  of  May — and  he  obtained 
his  degree,  to  the  great  astonishment  of  the 
dean,  who  collapsed  on  receiving  the  news,  and 
to  the  anger  of  his  private  coach,  with  whom  he 
had  wagered  the  term's  fee  that  he  would  pass. 

Feo  left  London  with  her  father  and  Captain 
Otto  on  the  Friday.  On  the  following  Monday, 
as  no  letter  came  from  her,  Leslie  decided  to  go 
to  Paris  and  to  ask  her  why  she  had  not  written 
to  him.  He  crossed  the  Channel  by  the  morning 
mail,  and  went  straight  to  the  Hotel  Chatam. 
When  he  had  dined  by  himself,  he  asked  the 
head  waiter  if  he  knew  the  Avenue  Marceau,  and 
how  far  off  it  was.  The  man  raised  his  eyes  to 
heaven  in  mute  protest.  If  he  knew  the  Avenue 
Marceau!  It  was  one  of  the  grand  thorough- 
fares. Every  one  knew  the  Avenue  Marceau.  It 
was  a  turning  out  of  the  Champs  Elysees.  Mon- 
sieur was  evidently  a  stranger.  He  had  better 
take  a  cab,  or  he  would  lose  himself.  Leslie 
listened  unconcernedly,  and  disregarding  the 
polite  offers  of  the  hotel  interpreter,  called  a  cab 
and  gave  his  directions  in  execrable  French. 
He  liked  to  think  that  the  money  his  father  had 
spent  on  French  masters  was  not  wasted.  The 
cabman,  in  his  turn,  was  all  politeness.  When 
his  faro  had  shut  the  door,  he  bent  down  and 
asked  the  interpreter  "  Where  to  ? "  The  men 
exchanged  a  mutual  "  Oh  yes,"  to  express  their 


HOUSE  IN  AVENUE  MAKCEAU      39 

contempt  for  the  foreigner  and  his  ways,  and  the 
cab  drove  off. 

It  is  comparatively  easy  to  direct  a  Paris  cab- 
man. It  is  more  difficult  to  argue  with  him. 
When,  in  the  Avenue  Marceau,  Leslie's  coach- 
man stopped  suddenly  and  asked  him  the  number 
of  the  house  to  which  he  wished  to  go,  the  man 
might  as  well  have  started  a  discussion  upon  the 
Talmud.  The  flourishes  of  his  whip,  his  astound- 
ing gesticulations,  his  abandon  to  despair,  quickly 
drew  a  little  crowd  to  the  scene. 

'"  I  shall  be  charged  with  assault  and  battery  if 
this  goes  on,"  was  Leslie's  argument  as  he  listened 
to  the  frenzied  appeals.  "  Why  the  deuce  can't 
the  man  speak  plain  English  ?  " 

He  searched  for  a  five-franc  piece,  and  offered 
it  humbly  in  appeasement  of  the  terrible  wrath 
of  one  who  merely  sought  to  know  the  number 
of  a  house.  In  the  crowd  there  was  an  old 
gentleman  who  spoke  "  leetle  English,"  and  he 
generously  attempted  to  put  the  matter  straight. 

"  The  number  of  the  mansion,  monsieur — what 
is  your  number  ?  " 

"  That's  just  what  I  want  to  know,"  said  the 
lad  desperately.  "  He's  an  Austrian  chap,  Cap- 
tain von  Something,  and  I'm  jiggered  if  I  haven't 
forgotten  his  name." 

The  Frenchman  shook  his  head  and  passed  on. 

"  They  are  all  mad,  these  English,"  he  said. 


40  FfiO 

Leslie,  who  wore  a  light  dust-coat,  and  had  not 
changed  his  blue  serge  after  the  journey,  began 
to  think  that  the  old  Frenchman  was  right.  It 
was  just  like  Feo,  he  argued,  to  bring  him  to 
Paris  on  this  fool's  errand.  Why  did  she  not 
write  down  the  number  of  the  house?  He 
remembered  that  the  Austrian  had  been  ready 
enough  with  his  invitations,  but  had  quite  for- 
gotten to  supplement  them  with  those  directions 
which  were  necessary  to  bring  a  guest  to  his 
doors.  The  Avenue  Marceau  was,  certainly,  the 
devil  of  a  street.  He  looked  ahead  to  see  a 
bewildering  maze  of  lights  twinkling  away  to  a 
horizon  so  distant  that  the  possibility  even  of 
exploring  it  drove  him  to  despair.  And  all  the 
houses  were  so  shamelessly  alike.  By  here  and 
there,  it  is  true,  he  espied  some  building  standing 
apart  in  a  little  garden  of  trees,  as  though  re- 
senting the  intrusion  of  neighbouring  windows, 
and  desiring  a  seclusion  which  a  later  generation 
of  builders  had  denied  to  it.  But  such  houses 
did  not  help  him.  Impossible  to  ring  at  all  the 
bells  of  those  countless  doors  and  to  ask,  "  Does 
Count  von  Something  live  here  ? — an  Austrian, 
you  know."  He  must  wait  until  he  could  find 
some  one  who  would  help  him  without  the 
danger  of  an  apoplectic  fit  of  the  argument.  To- 
morrow he  would  go  to  the  Austrian  Embassy. 
Meanwhile,  there  was  the  Moulin  Rouge.  He 


HOUSE  IN  AVENUE  MARCEAU      41 

did  not  care  a  snap  of  the  fingers  about  the 
Moulin  Rouge,  but  he  knew  that  you  must  go 
there  when  you  visit  Paris.  People  at  home 
would  feel  offended  if  he  had  not  been.  He  was 
too  young  yet  to  have  lost  the  gregarious  instincts 
of  the  untra veiled  Englishman. 

He  went  to  the  Moulin  Rouge,  and  next  day 
was  at  the  Austrian  Embassy.  They  told  him 
that  there  were  many  Austrians  in  the  Avenue 
Marceau,  and  that  his  information  was  somewhat 
vague.  "  The  name  of  the  captain,  mein  Herr— 
bring  us  that  and  we  will  point  out  his  house  to 
you."  He  nodded  his  head  and  replied  that  the 
name  had  a  "  von  "  to  it,  but  he  feared  this  strik- 
ing method  of  identification  would  not  help  them. 
Three  hours  spent  vainly  in  the  Avenue  Marceau 
that  morning  convinced  him  that  he  had  better 
go  back  to  London  and  ascertain  if  Feo  had  not 
written  after  all.  He  determined  to  do  so,  and 
made  up  his  mind  to  leave  by  the  evening  mail. 
When  the  hour  for  departure  came,  he  remem- 
bered that  Feo  was  in  Paris.  Her  presence  gave 
a  stimulus  to  his  life  there,  which  was  irresistible. 
He  did  not  heed  his  loneliness,  his  lack  of  friends, 
his  difficulty  in  passing  away  the  time.  Feo  was 
in  the  city.  He  was  near  her.  A  chance  piece 
of  luck  would  permit  him  to  hear  her  voice 
again. 

The  luck  for  which  he  hoped  seemed  to  come 


42 

to  him  when  he  had  been  in  Paris  for  ten  days. 
He  had  spent  his  morning  as  usual  in  the 
Avenue  Marceau,  and  was  returning  gloomily 
to  dejeuner  at  a  little  cafe  in  the  Faubourg  St. 
Honore,  when  whom  should  he  see  on  the  pave- 
ment before  him  but  the  very  Austrian  whose 
house  he  had  searched  for  so  vainly  !  There  was 
no  mistaking  that  military  gait,  that  eye-glass, 
that  curious  yellow  hair  tinged  almost  with  a 
vein  of  auburn  as  the  sunlight  fell  upon  it. 
Leslie  said  that  he  could  have  picked  the  fellow 
from  a  thousand.  He  began  to  congratulate 
himself  upon  his  resolution  to  remain  in  Paris. 
He  would  see  Feo  after  all.  Excitement  of  the 
hope  sent  him  hurrying  after  the  Austrian.  The 
man  was  then  not  fifty  yards  ahead  of  his  pur- 
suer ;  he  was  about  to  enter  an  old  house,  one  of 
those  doleful-looking  mansions  of  the  Paris  of 
the  Empire,  which  stand  back  from  the  world  in 
an  enceinte  of  wall  and  old-world  gardens,  and 
are  ashamed  of  the  newness  all  about  them. 
Evidently  this  was  his  own  house,  for  he  opened 
the  garden  gate  with  a  key  and  passed  out  of 
sight  before  the  other  could  come  up  with  him. 
When  Leslie  arrived  at  the  gate,  he  found  it 
shut — an  old  gate  that  should  not  have  been 
opened  for  two  generations. 

He  was  out  of  breath,  and  he  knew  that  his 
cheeks  were  flaming,  so  he  stood  a  moment  upon 


"UK    PUI.LKI)    AT    TIIK    HKI.L." 


HOUSE  IN  AVENUE  MARCEAU      43 

the  pavement,v  ,and  looked  up  at  the  windows  of 
the  house  abovtNthe  high  wall  of  the  garden. 
Such  rooms  as  he  saw  were  garrets,  he  imagined, 
and  unused.  The  house  itself  seemed  strangely 
silent.  Not  a  sound  came  from  the  garden.  The 
old  garden  wall  was  rotting  and  decayed.  "When 
he  tugged  at  the  great  bell-pull,  no  answering 
ring  rewarded  him.  In  vain  he  beat  upon  the 
door  and  pulled  at  the  handle  of  the  bell  until 
the  rusty  knob  came  away  in  his  hand.  No  one 
appeared  at  the  gate.  He  heard  no  footsteps, 
no  voices,  not  so  much  as  the  baying  of  a  watch- 
dog. 

An  hour  passed  before  he  quitted  the  Avenue 
Marceau  to  return  to  his  hotel.  He  was  very 
preoccupied  as  he  went,  and  he  laughed  once  at 
himself  for  his  foolish  fancies.  Yet,  rightly  or 
wrongly,  the  idea  had  come  to  him  that  Feo  was 
in  that  house  and  that  she  was  in  danger  there. 
And  he  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  not 
leave  Paris  before  he  knew  the  truth,  and  had 
heard  from  her  own  lips  that  all  was  well  with 
her. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  BEGINNING   OF   THE  DOUBT 

GEORGES  DE  BEETHIEB  sat  in  the  conserva- 
tory of  Captain  Lamberg's  house  in  the  Avenue 
Marceau  and  sipped  his  liqueur  and  smoked  his 
cigar  with  the  air  of  one  justly  rewarded  for  a 
long  life  of  idleness.  He  had  been  in  Paris  for 
nearly  twenty  days,  and  he  said  to  himself  that 
if  such  luxuries  continued  to  wait  upon  his  pleas- 
ure, he  would  cheerfully  consent  to  any  exten- 
sion of  hospitality  that  might  be  pleasing  to  his 
host.  Whatever  misgivings  had  attended  his  de- 
parture from  London,  no  misgiving  troubled  him 
in  that  splendid  house.  Wretched  as  the  pur- 
lieus were,  rotting  and  decayed  the  garden, 
gloomy  and  forbidding  the  windows,  its  inte- 
rior, nevertheless,  was  unsurpassed  by  any  man- 
sion in  the  quarter. 

Many  thoughts  were  in  his  mind  on  that  twen- 
tieth day  when  he  sat  in  the  conservatory  of  the 
house  and  drank  good  coffee  and  remembered 
the  excellent  dejeuner  of  which  he  had  just  par- 
taken. Sometimes,  it  is  true,  he  was  troubled 
at  the  continued  absence  of  the  man  who  had 

44 


BEGINNING  OF  THE  DOUBT        45 

brought  him  to  Paris,  but  who  remained, 
strangely  enough,  in  that  England  he  had  just 
left.  This  fact  his  host  did  not  seek  to  deny. 

"Mademoiselle  Feo  was  right  and  we  were 
wrong,"  Lamberg  said:  "the  Prince  arrived  in 
London  on  the  night  we  left.  It  was  a  summons 
from  her  Majesty,  the  Queen  of  England.  He 
has  gone  to  Windsor,  and  will  go  afterwards  to 
your  island  of  Wight.  I  am  sorry  that  you  must 
wait,  but  what  can  I  do  ?  If  we  left  now,  to- 
day, for  London  again,  his  Highness  would  be 
here  while  we  were  crossing  the  sea.  It  is  an- 
noying, but  it  cannot  be  helped,  M.  Berthier." 

He  spoke  as  a  man  who  wished  to  be  their 
friend,  with  a  rare  courtesy  and  an  unfailing 
regard  for  their  pleasure.  When  he  impressed 
upon  them  the  hope  that  they  would  not  be  seen 
in  the  streets  of  Paris,  it  was  as  the  desire  of  one 
who  served  them  in  all  honesty.  Sometimes  he 
would  appear  to  forget  that  desire,  and  would 
urge  an  evening's  amusement  at  one  of  the  cafes 
in  the  Champs  Ely  sees,  or  even  an  excursion  to 
Saint  Cloud  or  Versailles.  They  did  not  know 
that,  on  such  days,  he  had  read  the  French  and 
English  papers  from  the  first  line  to  the  last,  and 
had  set  the  occasion  down  as  a  safe  one.  The 
simplicity  of  his  task  amazed  him.  In  another 
ten  days  Prince  Jerome  would  be  in  Vienna 
again ;  all  the  world  would  know  of  his  be- 


46  FfiO 

trothal  to  his  cousin  Princess  Marie.  There 
would  be  an  angry  scene  then — but  a  bribe  of 
money  to  the  old  man  would  end  that ;  and  as 
for  the  girl — well,  she  was  young,  she  was  pretty, 
she  was  clever :  such  women  do  not  lack  careers. 
Lamberg  was  attracted  by  Feo  in  spite  of  him- 
self, but  her  reticence  and  her  silence  mystified 
him.  She  had  seemed  to  be  in  a  dream  ever 
since  they  quitted  London. 

"  Your  daughter  does  not  like  me,"  he  said  to 
Berthier  on  that  twentieth  day ;  "  she  has  not 
liked  me  since  she  saw  the  Prince  in  London.  If 
you  are  not  very  careful  with  her,  you  will  send 
our  friend  back  to  Vienna,  and  it  will  be  a  long 
time  before  he  comes  to  Paris  again.  I  have  been 
foolish,  perhaps,  to  take  her  out  at  all.  There 
are  sure  to  be  those  who  know  her  at  the  Em- 
bassy here,  and  if  they  have  seen  us — well,  the 
rest  is  easy  to  guess.  At  the  same  time  I  cannot 
tell  your  daughter  these  things.  She  is  an  Eng- 
lishwoman, and  would  resent  the  necessity  for 
so  much  secrecy.  I  do  not  blame  her  for  that. 
I  only  suggest  that  you  should  do  what  I  cannot 
do." 

Old  Berthier,  thoroughly  alarmed,  and  seeing 
in  his  imagination  the  good  things  about  him 
vanish  as  at  a  magic  touch,  hastened  to  express 
contrition  for  Feo  and  apologies  for  her  way. 
wardness. 


BEGINNING  OF  THE  DOUBT        47 

"  She  shall  not  go  out  any  more,"  he  protested  ; 
"  it  will  be  difficult  to  explain,  but  I  am  not 
frightened  at  that.  Ah,  my  friend,  you  do  not 
know  what  it  is  to  have  a  daughter !  " 

"  Since  I  am  a  bachelor  of  twenty  years'  stand- 
ing, I  do  not ;  but  I  can  understand.  I  know 
something  of  women,  and  I  rarely  complain  of 
them.  After  all,  the  fact  that  they  don't  do  just 
what  we  want  them  'to  do  does  not  necessarily 
imply  that  we  are  right  and  they  are  wrong.  A 
woman's  intuition  is,  in  my  opinion,  worth  more 
than  a  man's  philosophy.  Mademoiselle  does  not 
like  me  because  she  does  not  altogether  trust  me. 
I  shall  win  her  trust  by  and  by,  and  she  will  for- 
give me.  Meanwhile,  the  less  she  knows  of  what 
is  going  on  here  the  better.  It  is  always  diffi- 
cult to  teach  diplomacy  to  a  lady.  If  you  ask 
your  daughter  to  be  prudent  for  my  sake,  she 
will  go  out  five  minutes  afterwards.  On  the  con- 
trary, suggest  that  a  little  sacrifice  would  be  of 
service  to  the  Prince,  and  the  end  is  gained." 

Berthier  sipped  his  maraschino  and  smoked  for 
a  little  while  in  silence. 

"  There  shall  be  no  difficulties  of  our  making," 
he  exclaimed  at  last  with  obvious  reluctance.  "  I 
wish  I  could  say  that  there  would  be  none  made 
by  others.  My  child  has  lost  her  engagement  at 
the  opera,  and  they  will  not  offer  it  to  her  a  sec- 
ond time.  Her  future  is  dear  to  me.  I  should 


48 

be  glad  to  think  that  we  are  not  pursuing  a 
chimera." 

Captain  Lamberg  lit  a  cigar  and  drew  his  chair 
a  little  closer. 

"  I  thought  that  you  would  speak  of  this  mat- 
ter sooner  or  later,"  he  said  frankly.  "  I  am  glad 
that  it  should  be  now.  Of  course,  I  do  not  dis- 
guise it  from  myself  that  something  might  inter- 
vene even  yet  between  the  Prince  and  his  wishes. 
If  he  cannot  see  mademoiselle  in  Paris,  it  will  be 
open  to  you  either  to  await  a  more  fortunate  op- 
portunity, or  to  stipulate  that  those  who  are  keep- 
ing you  apart  shall  pay  for  the  privilege.  In 
your  shoes,  those  would  be  my  alternatives." 

He  spoke  with  apparent  carelessness,  but  was 
understood  nevertheless.  Old  Berthier  lent  a 
ready  ear  to  a  suggestion  which  pleased  him  so 
well. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  a  little  querulously,  "  let  us 
be  quite  plain  with  each  other.  Yesterday  you 
told  me  a  fairy-tale ;  you  now  wish  to  tell  me  the 
truth.  You  have  other  interests." 

The  Austrian  dissented  sharply. 

"  Not  at  all.  You  go  too  fast.  I  speak  neither 
as  a  friend  nor  as  a  foe,  but  as  a  man  of  the  world. 
When  I  went  to  London,  three  weeks  ago,  I  be- 
lieved it  quite  possible  to  bring  these  young  peo- 
ple together  again.  If  they  are  kept  apart,  it 
will  be  by  an  influence  I  am  unable  to  combat. 


BEGINNING  OF  THE  DOUBT         49 

I  do  not  wish  to  see  you  suffer  by  my  failure,  and 
so  I  remind  you  that  there  are  those  in  Vienna 
who  will  be  very  ready  to  hear  your  complaints. 
I  should  regret  such  an  eventuality  chiefly  for  the 
sake  of  the  man  who  would  give  half  the  years 
of  his  life  to  meet  your  daughter  again  and  to 
know  that  his  future  was  her  future.  None  the 
less,  if  the  worst  should  happen,  there  is  always 
the  other  course  of  which  I  speak.  In  your 
shoes,  I  would  accept,  unhesitatingly,  any  satis- 
faction they  may  make,  as  a  just  debt  owing  to 
you  by  those  who  sent  you  out  of  Austria." 

"  You  think  that  I  should  write  to  the  Arch- 
duke?" 

"If  the  circumstances  justify  a  letter.  This 
week  will  be  Decisive.  Should  the  Prince  not  be 
in  Paris  on  Sunday  morning,  he  will  never  be  so 
far  as  we  are  concerned.  It  will  mean  that  they 
have  become  acquainted  with  certain  matters  we 
endeavoured  to  keep  from  their  knowledge.  I 
say  this  frankly  because  you  have  trusted  me,  and 
I  desire  that  the  trust  shall  be  mutual.  What- 
ever happens  here.  Otto  Lamberg  will  always  re- 
main the  friend  of  Georges  de  Berthier  and  of  his 
daughter." 

He  protested  with  that  fine  show  of  manners 
by  which  the  Austrians  are  ever  to  be  known ; 
and  so  subtly  did  he  complicate  the  problem  that 
the  many  issues  of  it  were  not  yet  to  be  mastered 


50 

by  his  victim.  Berthier,  on  his  part,  began  to 
rack  his  brains  anew  in  a  confused  attempt  to 
grapple  with  the  fresh  situation  which  candour 
had  made  possible.  He  was  still  silent  in  such 
an  employment  when  Feo,  dressed  for  walking, 
passed  down  the  stairs  and  stood  at  the  conserv- 
atory door. 

"I  am  going  to  the  Bois,  father,"  she  said, 
pausing  an  instant  to  speak  to  them;  "if  you 
are  coming,  you  will  find  me  at  the  chalet" 

Both  men  rose  to  their  feet,  but  Lamberg  was 
the  first  to  speak. 

"  Is  that  very  prudent,  Mademoiselle  Feo  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  I  am  tired  of  prudence,  and  I  am  going  out," 
she  answered  quietly. 

"You  are  very  foolish,  Feo,"  Berthier  said. 
"  You  know  perfectly  well  that  we  do  not  wish 
any  one  to  see  us  in  Paris.  A  little  sacrifice  is 
necessary,  and  yet  you  do  not  consent  to  it." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  The  Prince  would  not  wish  me  to  suffocate," 
she  exclaimed.  "I  am  going  to  the  Bois.  If 
you  are  frightened,  you  can  get  a  carriage  and 
come  and  fetch  me." 

She  turned  quickly  and  ran  down  the  stairs. 
The  concierge,  a  burly  Austrian,  hesitated  a  mo- 
ment before  he  opened  the  door ;  but  Lamberg 
had  followed  her,  and  he  indicated  assent,  by  the 


'  '  I    AM    TIRK.l)    OK 


PRUDENCE,'    SHE    SAID.' 


BEGINNING  OF  THE  DOUBT         51 

slightest  nod  of  his  head.  Despite  his  words  to 
her  father,  he  had  marked  the  day  a  safe  one. 

"  If  I  had  thought  of  it,  we  would  have  driven 
you,"  he  said,  standing  at  the  door  to  let  her 
pass,  " but  we  shall  come  for  you  at  the  chalet" 

"  How  kind  you  are ! "  was  her  answer,  "  and 
how  grateful  my  father  should  be  !  " 

The  irony  was  not  lost  upon  him.  He  watched 
her  as  she  began  to  walk  quickly  towards  the 
Arc  de  1'Etoile,  and  he  knew  that  with  her  the 
battle  lay. 

"  Ten  thousand  florins  will  buy  the  father,"  he 
said  to  himself  as  he  went  upstairs  again,  "  but 
there  is  no  fortune  in  Europe  which  will  keep  a 
woman  away  from  the  man  she  loves." 


CHAPTER  YII 

WESTWARD   TO   THE  BOIS 

IT  was  a  day  of  June,  sunny  and  fresh  with 
gentle  breezes.  All  Paris  moved  westward  to 
the  Bois  when  Feo  quitted  the  old  house  in  the 
Avenue  Marceau,  and  found  herself  hurrying 
onward  to  that  scene  of  life  and  colour  and 
merriment  which  the  city  ever  can  command. 
Still  ripe  with  the  greens  of  spring,  the  rustling 
trees  in  the  avenues  about  the  Arc  de  1'Etoile 
seemed  to  shake  down  their  blossoms  upon  an 
endless  procession,  wherein  every  known  form  of 
carriage  that  man  has  made  could  find  its  place 
and  contribute  to  the  cavalcade.  Splendid  ba- 
rouches, low-built  victorias  drawn  by  perfect 
cobs,  dog-carts  with  two  horses,  dog-carts  with 
one,  coaches,  cabs,  even  the  terrible  fiacre  plung- 
ing into  the  melee — all  these  rolled  and  surged  to- 
wards the  great  rendezvous  whither  Paris  betook 
herself  at  the  appointed  hour ;  there  to  plan  the 
morrow,  to  see  and  to  be  seen,  perchance  to  find 
lovers  waiting,  to  be  gay  always,  wearing  the 
smiling  face  and  the  jesting  tongue  because  the 

52 


WESTWAKD  TO  THE  BOIS          53 

days  of  summer  are  few  and  only  lajeunesse  is 
eternal. 

Feo  watched  the  carriages  as  she  trod  the 
crowded  pavements,  and  many  desires  and  ambi- 
tions were  born  to  her  of  the  scene.  That  dolour 
of  life,  which  had  pursued  her  since  she  left 
Vienna,  was  no  part  of  her  nature,  she  knew. 
It  was  her  birthright  to  laugh  as  these  people 
laughed,  to  wear  the  smiles  they  wore,  to  love  as 
they  loved.  Her  very  silence  and  gloom  had 
been  the  outcome  of  that  suppressed  excitement 
which  the  tragedy  of  love  had  born  within  her. 
She  knew  that  a  word  from  one  man  could  break 
the  spell  and  bring  back  the  Feo  whose  gaiety 
and  girlish  energy  had  won  so  great  a  name  in 
the  theatres  of  Vienna.  In  imagination  she  be- 
held herself,  dressed  as  the  throng  of  chattering 
women  whose  hats  and  whose  gowns  were  to  be 
discussed,  ay  in  many  a  village  during  the  com- 
ing year.  She  saw  herself,  with  Jerome  at  her 
side,  the  envy  of  many  who  then  passed  so  close 
to  the  pavement  that  she  could  have  touched 
them  with  her  hand,  but  who  did  not  turn  a  head 
to  look  at  her.  Even  in  the  darkest  moments  of 
her  life  she  had  believed  that  fate  ultimately 
would  reward  her  for  the  hours  of  work  and  of 
poverty  and  of  tears.  The  same  belief  was  mag- 
nified in  this  city  of  hope  abundant.  Paris  was 
powerful  to  inspire  her  to  ambition  anew.  She 


54  FfiO 

said  to  herself,  as  the  throngs  jostled  her  and  the 
men  stared  at  her  and  the  noise  of  the  laughter 
rang  in  her  ears,  "  If — if  Jerome  should  come  !  " 

It  was  a  great  desire,  a  young  girl's  desire  for 
the  consummation  of  that  first  great  romance  of 
life,  surpassing  other  romances,  the  love  which 
neither  questions  nor  reckons.  From  the  mo- 
ment that  they  had  told  her  their  secret  in  the 
train,  she  had  lived  in  another  world.  Jerome, 
her  lover,  was  coming  to  Paris ;  he  had  not  for- 
gotten her ;  the  old  days  in  Vienna  were  to  be 
relived  again.  She  wondered  neither  at  the  way 
of  their  meeting  nor  at  her  journey.  That  which 
she  had  suffered  in  Austria  at  the  hands  of  the 
Prince's  friends  was  to  be  atoned  for  in  this  lux- 
ury of  the  old  house  in  the  Avenue  Marceau. 
Jerome  was  very  rich.  She  regarded  Lamberg 
as  his  servant.  He  had  wished  to  redeem  his 
promises  made  long  ago  in  the  sunny  woods  of 
the  Danube.  There  was  no  thought  of  hurt  to 
him  in  the  contemplation  of  this  happiness  be- 
yond measure,  for  she  said  that  he  loved  her, 
and  she  believed  that  the  riches  of  her  love 
would  be  dearer  to  him  than  anything  life  could 
give  him. 

During  the  first  week  of  her  sojourn  in  Paris, 
she  had  lived  in  this  atmosphere  of  confidence  un- 
questioning. The  courteous  manner  of  Captain 
Lamberg,  added  to  her  own  great  wish,  forbade 


WESTWARD  TO  THE  BOIS          55 

suspicion  or  doubt.  Every  day  the  Austrian  as- 
sured her  anew  that  the  hours  of  waiting  would 
be  few,  that  the  Prince  was  in  England  against 
his  will,  that  he  could  not  write  because  of  those 
who  spied  upon  him. 

"  In  Paris,"  he  had  said,  "  there  will  be  no  such 
espionage,  because  they  believe  you  to  be  in  Lon- 
don. Your  father  and  I  have  been  careful  to 
circulate  the  report  that  illness  is  responsible  for 
your  absence  from  the  opera.  The  Prince's 
friends  will  breathe  again  when  he  is  in  Paris. 
We  shall  breathe  too — the  laugh  will  be  with  us. 
Believe  me,  I  would  risk  much  to  bring  my  friend 
Jerome  to  this  house  this  very  hour,  if  only  to 
prove  my  admiration  and  esteem  for  Mademoi- 
selle Feo." 

The  kindness  of  the  man  convinced  her,  but 
only  for  a  little  while.  As  the  days  of  waiting 
became  weeks,  and  she  must  hear  the  echo  of  the 
life  of  Paris  coming  to  her  as  a  mock  upon  the 
splendour  of  the  house,  which  was  her  prison,  a 
woman's  sure  instinct  began  to  help  her ;  and  she 
awoke  from  her  dreams  to  ask  herself  if  this  very 
secrecy  were  not  in  itself  a  shame  unworthy  of 
her  and  of  the  man  who  loved  her.  No  male- 
factor banished  from  Austria  for  an  offence 
against  its  government  could  have  been  the  ob- 
ject of  greater  suspicion.  Her  first  argument, 
that  Jerome  had  wished  it,  lost  its  force  when  he 


56  FfiO 

did  not  come  to  her.  One  day  she  asked  herself 
suddenly  if  it  were  indeed  Jerome's  wish  or  the 
wish  of  those  who  had  separated  her  from  him  ? 
In  that  hour  her  instinct  of  doubt  was  awakened. 
She  uttered  no  complaint  nor  betrayed  herself, 
saying  that  no  act  of  hers  should  be  remembered 
afterwards  as  a  cause  of  her  lover's  absence. 
But  to  Lamberg  the  glove  was  thrown,  and  he 
knew  it. 

An  odd  determination,  perhaps,  to  embarrass 
this  man  and  to  prove  him  carried  her  to  the 
Bois  that  afternoon.  It  was  a  woman's  impulse, 
and  she  repented  of  it  when  she  reached  the 
chalet  and  began  to  remember  how  very  much 
alone  she  was  in  that  world  of  laughing  faces 
and  perpetual  chatter.  These  dark-eyed,  dain- 
tily-dressed women,  whose  voices  were  ever  as  a 
shrill  note  of  music  in  the  air,  stood  so  far  away 
from  her  own  world  and  her  own  interests.  She 
asked  herself  if  obstinacy  had  not  carried  her 
from  the  Avenue  Marceau ;  indeed,  she  was  about 
to  retrace  her  steps,  humbly  and  in  penitence, 
when  a  carriage  passed  swiftly  through  the  press 
of  vehicles,  and  there,  sitting  on  the  right-hand 
seat,  with  a  young  Austrian  soldier  upon  his  left 
hand,  was  no  other  than  Prince  Jerome  himself. 
For  an  instant  she  beheld  him — the  Jerome  of 
the  old  days,  her  lover,  the  man  whose  promise 
had  been  to  her  as  the  bread  of  life.  Then  the 


A    HANI)    WAS   LAID    CKNTI.V    I'l'nN    HKK    SHOULDER. 


57 

press  closed  about  the  carriage.  The  apparition, 
as  of  one  long  dead  seen  anew  in  the  glare  of  the 
noonday  sun,  vanished  from  her  sight.  She  was 
alone,  tottering,  faint,  crushed  as  with  the  burden 
of  her  folly. 

Unconscious  of  that  which  she  did,  deaf  now 
to  the  voices  of  the  women,  blind  to  the  glitter 
of  the  scene,  Feo  hurried  home  again.  Jerome 
in  Paris !  They  had  lied  to  her,  then !  Or  had 
he  but  just  come,  and  was  this  the  punishment 
for  her  obstinacy  1  The  very  thought  tormented 
her  in  an  agony  of  self-reproach.  She  could 
picture  him  hurrying  to  the  house  in  the  Avenue 
Marceau  to  hear  the  story — "  She  would  not 
wait,  she  would  not  be  prudent."  A  whisper  of 
deep  foreboding  pleaded  that  he  might  never  re- 
turn. Her  anxiety  to  know  the  worst,  if  the 
worst  must  be,  quickened  her  steps  and  set  her 
heart  beating.  When  some  one  spoke  to  her  and 
a  hand  was  laid  gently  upon  her  shoulder,  she 
did  not  hear  the  words  nor  feel  the  touch.  She 
must  get  home  again,  she  thought. 

"  I  say,  Feo — you  don't  mean  it !  Can't  you 
spare  me  a  minute  ?  " 

She  looked  up,  recognising  now  the  voice  and 
the  hand  of  Leslie  Drummond. 

"  You — here  in  Paris,  Leslie  ! " 

"Well,  I  think  so,  unless  it's  Hyde  Park  by 
mistake." 


58 

She  hesitated,  for  she  knew  that  he  was  her 
friend. 

"  Why  did  you  not  come  to  see  us  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Come  to  see  you — I  like  that !  Why,  I've 
been  to  your  place  twice  a  day  for  the  last  three 
weeks." 

He  shook  his  curly  black  hair  defiantly,  and 
then  perceiving  her  astonishment,  he  began  to 
apologise  boyishly. 

"  Of  course,  it  wasn't  your  fault — I  know  that. 
You  came  here  to  see  the  woolly-headed  Austrian 
chap  who's  just  gone  by  in  a  landau  that  must 
have  been  made  for  Epping  Forest.  The  fellow's 
been  here  all  day.  I  half  expected  to  see  you  in 
the  carriage  with  him." 

Feo's  eyes  blazed  angrily. 

"  You  must  not  speak  like  that  of  my  friends, 
Leslie.  You  do  not  know  what  his  friendship 
means  to  me." 

"I'm  very  sorry,  Feo.  I  can't  help  chaffing. 
I  wish  to  God  there  was  nothing  to  chaff  you 
about.  You  might  have  seen  me  at  any  rate, 
just  for  the  sake  of  old  times.  I  told  you  I'd 
come  to  Paris  if  you  didn't  write  to  me." 

"  But  I  have  written  to  you  twice." 

He  stood  and  looked  at  her  in  amazement. 

"  Some  one  forgot  to  post  your  letters,  then  ?  " 

"  You  never  received  them  ?  " 

"  Not  a  letter ! " 


WESTWARD  TO  THE  BOIS  59 

They  walked  on  for  a  little  way  in  silence. 
Feo  was  very  pale,  and  lie  could  see  that  she  was 
thinking  deeply. 

"  Tell  me,  Leslie,"  she  asked  presently,  "  what 
did  they  say  to  you  when  you  called  at  Captain 
Lamberg's  house  ?  " 

"They  were  discreet.  They  didn't  open  the 
door.  I  don't  want  to  be  impolite  about  your 
friend,  Feo,  but  I  think  he's  a  liar." 

Feo  half  suppressed  a  sob. 

"  He  is  my  father's  friend,"  she  said  quickly. 
"We  came  to  his  house  because  he  said  that 
Jerome  wished  it  and  could  only  see  us  again  if 
we  were  in  Paris.  I  dare  not  think  that  he  has 
deceived  us." 

"  Oh,  but  I  dare !  If  the  thing  was  all  square, 
why  is  he  afraid  to  open  his  door  when  a  man 
knocks  decently  ?  You  heard  him  ask  me  to 
come  and  see  him.  It  isn't  a  case  of  a  broken 
bell,  for  I've  made  enough  row  to  wake  the 
prophets.  There's  something  wrong,  Feo,  and 
the  sooner  you're  both  out  of  that  place  the 
better." 

She  tried  to  argue  favourably,  struggling  still 
with  her  hope. 

"  My  father  declares  that  he  has  known  Cap- 
tain Lamberg  for  ten  years.  We  have  every- 
thing that  we  want  there,  and  are  very  kindly 
treated.  You  judge  the  house  from  what  you 


see  of  it.  When  you  come  inside  you  will  change 
your  mind." 

Leslie  walked  on,  swinging  his  stick. 

"  Possibly  I  shall — when  I  come  inside.  That 
will  be  in  the  day  of  the  Morlocks.  It's  plain  to 
me  that  if  your  Austrian  friend  expected  to  find 
you  in  the  Avenue  Marceau,  he  wouldn't  be  driv- 
ing in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  I  wish  you'd  just 
cut  it  all  and  come  along  and  stay  at  the  Chatam. 
I've  plenty  of  cash :  why  should  we  bother  about 
it  if  we  are  friends  ?  " 

They  entered  the  Avenue  Marceau  as  he  spoke. 
She  turned  to  him  with  gratitude  to  be  read  in 
her  pretty  eyes. 

"  I  could  never  do  that,  Leslie ;  it  would  not  be 
right  to  you.  I  am  going  back  now  to  learn  the 
truth.  If  it  is  as  you  think,  I  will  come  to  the 
Hotel  Chatam  to-morrow  to  tell  you  so.  If  you 
wish  to  be  my  friend,  do  not  let  them  see  us  to- 
gether here.  I  am  very  grateful  to  you,  Leslie." 

She  pressed  his  hand  and  was  gone  in  an  in- 
stant. He  followed  her  with  wistful  gaze.  Ah, 
this  Paris,  if  it  could  have  given  him  Feo,  what 
a  bounty  of  life  would  have  been  his !  For  he 
began  to  realise  that  this  handsome,  helpless, 
winsome  girl  was  more  to  him  than  all  else  that 
men  appraise  or  seek  of  fortune. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  LIE 

FEO  was  breathless  when  she  entered  the  gar- 
den of  Lamberg's  house  and  stood  again  hearing 
the  protestations  of  the  concierge  that  his  master 
had  already  gone  to  look  for  her. 

"Monsieur,  your  father,  is  upstairs.  I  think 
that  they  wish  to  see  you  very  much,  made- 
moiselle. The  Captain  went  out  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  ago  and  has  not  returned.  There  was  a 
telegram." 

For  an  instant  it  seemed  to  Feo  that  all  her 
fabric  of  doubt  and  suspicion  was  destroyed  by 
such  news.  A  telegram  had  come;  it  was  the 
telegram  which  announced  Jerome's  arrival. 
Captain  Lamberg  had  gone  out  to  look  for  her ! 
It  was  to  carry  the  good  tidings  to  her.  She 
thought  how  easy  it  was  to  misunderstand  the 
motives  of  others ;  and  so  ran  up  quickly  to  find 
her  father. 

Old  Georges  de  Berthier  was  reading  the 
Figaro  in  the  library.  The  indispensable  cigar- 
ette helped  to  remind  him  of  the  new  content  of 

61 


62  FfiO 

life  which  had  come  to  him  in  Paris.  He  was 
almost  affable  when  Feo  entered  the  room,  and 
had  no  complaint  of  his  ailments  ready  for  her. 

"  Well,"  he  exclaimed,  "  so  you  did  not  meet 
the  Captain  ?  " 

She  threw  herself  upon  the  great  lounge  at  his 
side  and  told  him  her  news  without  disguise. 

"  Jerome  is  in  Paris.  I  have  just  seen  him  in 
the  Bois.  I  suppose  that  was  why  Captain  Lam- 
berg  went  to  look  for  me." 

Berthier  crumpled  up  the  paper  in  his  hand 
and  sat  reflective  and  not  a  little  astonished,  as 
one  called  upon  to  pronounce  suddenly  upon  a 
very  difficult  affair. 

"No,"  he  said  very  slowly  and  after  an  inter- 
val of  embarrassing  silence,  "  he  did  not  tell  me 
that.  A  telegram  came,  and  he  went  out  to  look 
for  you  immediately.  If  Jerome  is  in  Paris,  he 
will  come  here  to-day — or — he  will  never  come 
at  all,  my  child." 

He  turned  round  in  his  chair  and  looked  her 
full  in  the  face.  She  was  very  pale,  he  thought, 
and  there  was  a  strange  light  in  her  eyes  which 
he  had  never  seen  before.  But  she  did  not  ex- 
press astonishment  that  he  should  speak  in  such 
a  way,  and  her  answer  was  a  question. 

"Father,"  she  asked,  "why  did  we  come  to 
Paris?" 

"  You  know  why  we  came,  Feo." 


THE  LIE  63 

•*  You  believe  that  Captain  Lamberg  told  you 
the  truth  ?  " 

"  Why  should  I  not  believe  it  ?  He  is  a  Cuiras- 
sier of  the  Guard  and  Jerome's  friend." 

"  But  if  he  should  have  told  you  a  lie  ?  " 

The  old  man's  fingers  began  to  play  with  the 
paper  nervously.  He  knew  well  that  he  dared 
not  answer  the  question. 

"  Do  not  trouble  your  head  with  such  ideas," 
he  said  presently ;  "  men  do  not  invite  to  their 
houses  those  whom  they  wish  to  rob.  If  Jerome 
does  not  come  here,  it  will  be  because  his  father 
has  seen  fit  to  prevent  him." 

"  In  that  case  what  are  we  going  to  do  ?  " 

Berthier  knitted  his  brows  and  began  to  puff 
at  his  cigarette.  His  answer  was  a  running  com- 
mentary upon  his  own  ideas. 

"  They  sent  us  away  from  Vienna  when  we 
could  have  made  our  fortunes  there.  We  have 
suffered  much  at  their  hands,  for  they  sought  to 
prevent  our  success  in  London  as  they  are  now 
trying  to  do  us  an  injury  in  Paris.  If  they  are 
honourable  men,  they  will  make  us  some  com- 
pensation for  that  which  we  have  suffered.  I 
shall  not  go  to  them  as  a  beggar,  Feo,  be  sure  of 
that.  I  do  not  forget  that  I  am  an  artist  and  a 
gentleman.  But  if  we  are  to  be  left  in  Paris, 
after  all  that  has  happened,  it  would  be  bare 
justice  to  ask  them  either  to  find  you  a  new  en- 


64 

gagement  or  the  equivalent  of  it.  Of  course  the 
Prince  may  come  yet,  and  that  would  be  the 
end  of  the  difficulty.  I  trust  it  may  be  so.  I  am 
a  proud  man,  and  this  intrigue  is  hurtful  to  my 
pride.  The  future  is  full  of  anxiety — of  grave 
anxiety." 

Feo  laughed  a  little  hardly.  She  was  begin- 
ning to  see  the  terrible  indignity  which  her  con- 
tinued residence  in  Paris  must  put  upon  her. 

"You  were  wrong  to  come  to  Paris  at  all, 
father,"  she  said  quietly.  "  If  it  means  so  much 
to  Jerome's  friends  that  he  should  see  me  again, 
I  will  not  see  him  at  all.  Can't  you  understand 
the  shame  of  our  position  ?  "Why  were  you  not 
frank  with  me  before  you  left  London  ?  You 
owed  it  to  me.  You,  at  least,  should  have  saved 
me  from  this  dreadful  mistake." 

"Come,  come,  you  must  not  talk  like  that, 
child.  What  I  have  done,  I  have  done  for  your 
happiness.  Is  it  my  fault  that  these  people  must 
only  marry  with  their  equals  ?  There  are  twenty 
princes  morganatically  married  in  Europe  to-day. 
Their  lives  are  secret  as  your  life  will  be  secret. 
They  are  not  ashamed ;  why  should  they  be  ?  I 
shall  take  care  that  we  suffer  no  indignity.  The 
sacrifices  I  have  made  are  not  to  be  considered 
lightly.  I  do  not  expect  you  to  remember  them  ; 
children  never  do.  But  your  future  is  my  proper 
care ;  and  if  these  people  continue  their  persecu- 


THE  LIE  65 

tion,  they  shall  pay  for  it — that  is  all.  In  the 
meantime  we  will  wait  and  see.  Our  suspicions 
may  be  wrong.  Let  us  be  just  before  all 
things." 

He  could  protest  with  a  fine  air  of  honesty  and 
of  truth ;  but  the  day  had  been  long  distant 
when  such  protestations  deceived  Feo  in  any 
way.  She  did  not,  upon  the  instant,  realise  the 
whole  meaning  of  the  satisfaction  he  hinted  at  as 
a  recompense  for  the  evil  days  in  Vienna ;  but 
the  conviction  grew  upon  her  that  she  was  the 
victim  of  a  lie,  and  she  would  have  said  as  much 
but  for  the  return  of  Lamberg  himself,  who  came 
hurrying  to  the  library,  and  did  not  conceal  his 
satisfaction  at  finding  her  there. 

"  Ah,  mademoiselle,  you  are  really  here !  And 
I  have  been  walking  round  and  round  the  chalet 
like  a  horse  in  the  circus.  That  was  not  kind  of 
you." 

Feo  stood  up  to  answer  him. 

"  I  met  a  friend,  Mr.  Drummond  of  London ; 
and  I  hear  that  Prince  Jerome  is  in  Paris,  Cap- 
tain Lamberg." 

Lamberg's  face  blanched  visibly,  but  long 
practice  had  given  him  good  weapons  for  such  an 
encounter. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  met  your  English  friend, 
Miss  Feo.  He  must  come  and  see  us.  Your 
other  story,  unfortunately,  is  not  true.  The 


66 

Prince  is  still  at  Windsor,  but  he  has  promised 
to  be  in  Paris  in  three  days'  time." 

Feo  laughed  lightly. 

"  How  you  console  me,  Captain ! "  she  said 
with  an  assumption  of  girlish  indifference. 

"  Not  so ;  I  must  leave  that  to  another  friend 
of  yours." 

"  Who  is  coming  on  Saturday  ?  " 

"  Who  is  coming  on  Saturday." 

"  Unfailingly  ?  " 

"  He  will  move  heaven  and  earth  to  come." 

"  What  a  dreadful  undertaking ! " 

"  Not  dreadful  in  certain  cases,  Miss  Feo." 

"  Then  we  may  expect  him  on  Monday  ?  " 

"  I  said  Saturday,  mademoiselle." 

"  But  I  wish  to  give  the  universe  a  chance." 

Old  Berthier  laughed  heartily. 

"It  is  no  good  to  contradict  a  woman,"  he 
said ;  "  let  us  make  it  Monday,  and  have  our 
tea." 

Feo  assented,  still  jesting  with  them. 

"Things  that  happen  to-morrow  are  always 
better  than  those  which  happen  to-day,"  she 
said  ;  "  that  is  why  the  truth  is  often  such  an 
uncomfortable  guest.  Don't  you  think  so,  Cap- 
tain?" 

He  looked  at  her  sharply,  and  as  their  eyes 
met,  he  knew  that  she  believed  him  no  longer. 
And  this  was  true,  for  Feo  went  to  her  room  to 


THE  LIE  67 

tell  herself  that  Otto  Lamberg  had  lied  to  her, 
and  that  she  would  remain  in  his  house  no 
longer.  But  old  Georges  de  Berthier,  sipping 
his  tea  in  the  library,  asked  himself  how  much 
the  Archduke  Frederick  would  pay  for  a  promise 
that  Feo  should  see  his  son  no  more. 


CHAPTER  IX 

UNMASKED 

FEO  went  straight  to  her  room  and  drew  a 
chair  to  the  window  that  she  might  think  upon 
all  the  day  had  taught  her.  It  was  a  large  room, 
furnished  with  great  taste,  and  looking  over  a 
little  court  at  the  back  of  the  house.  She  could 
see  nothing  of  the  life  of  Paris  from  its  windows, 
only  the  quaint  old  court  with  the  great  green 
pots  and  the  stunted  palms  in  them,  and  the  low 
wing  of  a  neighbouring  mansion  which  here  jut- 
ted out  and  touched  the  kitchen  buildings  below 
her.  Beyond  the  courtyard,  and  the  high  walls 
to  which  it  extended,  there  lay  another  of  those 
great  avenues  which  radiate  from  the  Arc  de 
1'Etoilo.  She  could  hear  a  low  murmur  of  the 
city's  life,  a  voice  of  Paris  at  the  zenith  of  the 
springtime,  coming  to  her  over  the  forgotten 
garden  and  the  gloomy  barrier  of  brick  and  ail- 
ing tree.  She  knew  that  she  was  in  the  gayest 
city  in  the  world,  and  yet  she  had  never  felt  so 
utterly  alone.  The  sap  of  her  spirit  had  dried  up 
suddenly ;  the  dream  of  the  days  during  which 
she  had  waited  for  Jerome  to  come  was  over. 
She  understood  now  that  he  would  never  come. 

68 


UNMASKED  69 

It  was  a  bitter  reflection,  not  so  much  of  her 
disappointment  as  of  the  shame  her  presence  in 
that  house  implied.  Never  for  a  moment  did  she 
doubt  now  that  she  had  been  brought  there,  not 
at  her  lover's  wish,  but  at  the  will  of  those  who 
would  keep  her  from  her  lover.  In  her  first 
keen  self-reproach,  she  was  sure  that  her  father 
was  privy  to  the  conspiracy.  He  had  sold  his 
honour  for  the  money  of  those  who  had  put  a 
slight  upon  him  in  Vienna,  and  had  sent  him  out, 
a  beggar,  to  the  capitals  of  the  West.  She  was 
of  age  now,  being  in  her  twenty-fourth  year,  to 
be  blinded  no  longer  by  that  inborn  reverence 
which  makes  the  child  the  last  to  admit  the 
father's  sin.  She  knew  her  father  in  his  every 
mood,  his  selfishness,  his  little  petty  cunning- 
ness,  his  jealousy  of  her  success,  his  generosity  to 
those  who  had  no  claim  upon  him.  She  could  not 
hide  it  from  herself  that  he  would  do  even  this. 
No  other  conclusion  of  her  charity  was  possible. 
He  had  heard  the  Austrian  lie  to  her.  He  had 
said  nothing.  Whatever  evil  was  being  wrought 
against  her,  to  that  her  father  was  a  party. 

She  came  to  such  an  understanding  as  she  sat 
at  her  window  and  listened  to  the  murmur  of  the 
life  of  Paris  and  the  whisper  of  the  June  breeze 
in  the  blackened  trees.  Jerome  was  in  the  city, 
she  said.  Perchance  he  had  come  there  to  seek 
her.  An  exquisite  hope  of  the  thought  was  born 


70 

in  her  heart  as  she  dwelt  upon  the  reflection. 
She  lived  again  in  those  moments  all  those  un- 
forgotten  days  of  her  love-dream,  in  the  East. 
She  could  remember  the  very  words  her  lover 
had  spoken  to  her ;  his  gentleness,  his  vows,  his 
care  for  her,  his  protestation  that  whatever  might 
befall,  he  would  follow  her  to  the  end  of  the 
world.  What  joy  of  life  had  been  hers  when  in 
city  and  in  forest  she  could  find  a  bower  of  her 
affections,  when  the  very  secrecy  of  her  love  had 
been  the  keystone  of  a  child's  romance !  To-day 
that  joy  might  return  to  her.  If  she  could  see 
Jerome !  If  she  could  leave  that  house  of  gloom 
behind  her  and  go  again  to  the  sunshine  of  free- 
dom, and  care  not  though  all  Paris  were  the 
witness !  It  was  a  woman's  resolution,  yet  none 
the  less  sure  for  that.  She  determined,  on  the 
instant,  to  leave  that  place,  and  to  go,  she  cared 
not  whither,  if  it  were  not  to  her  lover's  side. 

No  one  had  followed  her  upstairs  during  the 
hour  when  she  sat  at  her  bedroom  window  and 
found  herself  for  the  first  time  face  to  face  with 
the  story  of  the  intrigue.  Once,  when  she 
listened  for  a  little  while  at  the  stairs'  head,  she 
thought  that  she  could  hear  her  father's  voice ; 
and  afterwards  a  door  was  shut  loudly  and  the 
sound  of  voices  ceased.  She  imagined  then  that 
she  was  alone  in  the  house,  and  the  name  of 
Leslie  Drummond  occurred  to  her  as  one  who 


THK  CONCIP:R(;K  SHRUGGED  HIS  SIIOKI.DKKS. 


UNMASKED  71 

would  befriend  her  in  such  an  hour.  Excited,  as 
she  had  never  been  before,  in  the  thought  of 
flight  and  the  possibilities  of  flight,  she  put  on 
her  hat  quickly,  and  ran  down  the  stairs.  There 
was  only  the  concierge  at  the  great  front  door, 
and  he,  as  ever,  had  a  smile  and  a  ready  word 
for  her. 

"  I  am  going  to  the  Hotel  Chatam  to  see  Mr. 
Drummond,  an  Englishman,"  she  said;  "if  my 
father  should  ask,  you  will  tell  him.  I  do  not 
know  when  I  shall  return." 

A  strange  expression  came  upon  the  man's 
face.  He  did  not  attempt  to  open  the  door. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  protested, "  forgive  me ;  it 
is  not  my  wish,  but  my  order.  Your  father  does 
not  think  it  prudent  for  you  to  go  out  again  un- 
til he  has  returned.  A  thousand  apologies,  made- 
moiselle   " 

Feo  stood  dumfounded.  The  door  was  locked. 
The  man  did  not  move. 

"  You  do  not  mean  to  say  that  I  am  to  be  kept 
here  against  my  will  ?  " 

The  concierge  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  though 
this  were  the  worst  hour  of  his  life. 

"  It  is  not  that,  mademoiselle.  Be  reasonable. 
I  am  only  the  servant.  When  monsieur  comes 
home  he  will  explain." 

Feo  did  not  hear  him  ;  but  turning  quickly  she 
ran  upstairs  to  her  room  again. 


CHAPTER  X 
A  WOMAN'S  WAY 

IT  was  six  o'clock  then.  She  could  hear  the 
musical  bells  of  the  churches  across  the  river 
chiming  the  hour  when  she  shut  the  door  of  her 
bedroom  again.  In  the  house  itself  unbroken 
silence  reigned.  The  whisper  of  breeze  no  longer 
shivered  in  the  blackened  trees.  Paris  was  re- 
turning from  the  Bois,  and  would  cease  to  laugh 
until  the  sun  had  set. 

Feo  shut  the  door  and  took  off  her  hat.  She 
was  not  sorry  that  the  man  had  told  her  the 
truth ;  for  now  the  secret  of  the  house  was  hers. 
She  had  never  liked  Otto  Lamberg  from  the  mo- 
ment when  first  he  paid  her  one  of  his  pretty 
compliments  in  London.  She  knew  that  some 
mystery  lay  behind  that  story  which  he  told  so 
pleasantly.  But  that  this  should  be  truth — this 
intrigue  which  would  keep  her  from  Jerome  and 
make  her  a  prisoner  of  the  house  until  her  lover 
had  quitted  Paris — had  been  beyond  the  province 
of  her  reckoning.  Not  for  a  moment  could  she 
doubt  that  her  old  enemies  in  Austria  had  con- 
trived so  clumsy  a  conspiracy.  Wise  friends  in 

72 


A  WOMAN'S  WAY  73 

Vienna  once  had  said,  "  Beware,  for  these  people 
have  long  arms  and  can  strike  in  many  coun- 
tries." She  had  laughed  at  them  then.  And, 
not  a  little  to  her  astonishment,  she  found  that 
she  could  laugh  again  now  when  one  of  these 
arms  had  been  stretched  out  to  touch  her,  and 
a  paid  intriguer  had  justified  her  friends  of  their 
boasts.  The  plot  seemed  to  her  to  be  as  poorly 
conceived  as  it  was  impotent.  That  very  hour 
should  defeat  it.  She  took  the  resolution  there 
and  then,  and  once  taken  she  cleaved  to  it  tena- 
ciously. 

A  great  gift  of  courage  and  of  spirit  had  been 
hers  since  her  childhood.  It  was  odd  that  this 
sudden  realisation  of  her  danger  in  that  house  of 
mystery  should  arouse  latent  qualities  and  vivify 
them  in  the  moment  when  nerve  and  a  good 
heart  were  sorely  needed.  What  the  extent  of 
the  intrigue  might  be,  how  far  the  agents  of  the 
Archduke  would  go,  she  could  not  imagine. 
Sufficient  that  she  was  a  prisoner  in  the  house, 
that  Jerome  had  come  to  Paris  to  seek  her,  that 
her  father  had  lent  himself  shamefully  to  the  in- 
tentions of  those  who  had  waged  so  pitiless  a 
war  against  a  helpless  girl.  The  assurance  that 
she  stood  alone  nerved  her  to  the  encounter. 
She  had  determined  already  that  she  would  find 
a  road  to  freedom.  In  her  calmer  moments  there 
was  a  great  dread  of  that  which  the  silent,  mys- 


n  rfio 

terious  house  might  contain.  Her  imagination 
peopled  it  with  enemies  who  had  not  the  silver 
tongue  and  the  plausibility  of  Otto  Lam  berg. 
She  listened  for  any  sounds ;  the  creak  of  a  board 
made  her  heart  beat.  The  odd  thought  came  to 
her  that  she  was  watched,  and  panic  followed 
upon  her  laughter.  But  it  was  only  for  a  mo- 
ment. The  night  should  take  her — she  cared  not 
whither,  if  it  would  but  give  her  freedom. 

She  had  locked  the  door  of  her  room  when  she 
returned  to  it,  and  now  she  began  to  count  the 
money  she  had  in  her  purse  and  to  put  some  of 
her  pretty  clothes  in  the  great  black  dress 
basket.  It  was  pathetic  to  remember  that  she 
must  leave  these  clothes  behind  her ;  but  she 
amused  herself  with  the  intention  to  write  for 
them  and  to  say  that  they  might  be  sent,  carriage 
unpaid,  to  some  new  lodgings.  When  she  had 
done  everything  to  her  satisfaction,  she  opened 
the  door  again  and  listened.  A  dark  corridor, 
running  the  whole  length  of  the  house,  seemed 
to  lead  from  her  bedroom  to  the  servants'  quar- 
ters. The  idea  came  to  her  to  explore  the  corri- 
dor and  to  ascertain  if  it  would  afford  any  way  of 
egress  of  which  she  was  then  in  ignorance. 
There  was  no  one  in  that  wing  of  the  house  that 
she  could  see;  and  when  she  had  found  the 
courage,  she  set  out  boldly,  treading  the  corridor 
with  light  steps,  and  coming  at  last  to  a  winding 


A  WOMAN'S  WAY  Y5 

iron  staircase  which,  she  thought,  must  bring  her 
to  the  servants'  hall.  She  had  her  hand  already 
upon  the  balustrade  of  the  landing  when  a  man 
appeared  noiselessly  from  one  of  the  rooms  near 
by,  and,  appearing  to  be  astonished  at  her  pres- 
ence, began  to  remonstrate  with  her. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said  appealingly, "  that  is 
the  way  to  the  kitchen." 

Feo  turned  and  stared  at  him.  He  was  a 
strongly  built  man,  with  short  hair  and  a  French 
type  of  face.  The  door  of  the  room  behind  him 
was  still  ajar,  and  she  could  see  other  men  sitting 
at  a  little  table  and  playing  cards  there. 

"  But,  monsieur,  I  want  to  go  into  the  garden. 
It  is  suffocating  here." 

The  man  pointed  to  the  great  staircase  at  the 
other  end  of  the  corridor. 

"  That  way,  if  you  please,  mademoiselle." 

He  entered  the  little  room  again  and  shut  the 
door  after  him.  Feo  stood  an  instant  debating 
it ;  then  she  returned  slowly  to  her  own  apart- 
ment. That  which  she  had  seen  frightened  her 
as  she  had  never  been  frightened  before  in  all 
her  life.  It  was  not  so  much  the  word  of  the 
man  as  the  tone  in  which  he  had  spoken.  She 
asked  herself,  what  all  these  servants  were  doing 
in  Lamberg's  house  ?  Why  had  she  never  seen 
them  before  ?  What  would  happen  to  her  when 
the  hour  for  civility  had  passed  finally,  and  no 


76 

mask  was  needed  ?  They  might  even  dare  so 
much  as  to  kill  her.  She  laughed  at  herself  for 
such  a  foolish  fancy,  and  once  more  locked  her- 
self in  her  bedroom. 

She  had  been  dressed  for  walking  when  she 
packed  her  clothes,  and  she  put  on  her  hat  again 
as  the  hour  for  dinner  drew  near.  Minute  by 
minute  the  tension  of  the  scene  was  awaking 
faculties  long  spellbound  in  the  dreams  of  a 
child's  romance.  She  must  leave  the  house  that 
night ;  must  go  to  Jerome,  she  said.  The  daring 
of  the  resolve  was  as  strong  wine  to  one  who  had 
all  the  nervous  impulses  and  exciting  passions  of 
the  artist.  The  hazard  of  that  which  she  con- 
templated never  so  much  as  occurred  to  her.  She 
was  in  a  trap,  and  a  woman's  wit  must  get  her 
out.  When  the  maid  came  up  at  half-past  seven 
to  dress  her  for  dinner,  she  pleaded  a  headache 
and  desired  to  be  excused.  A  second  message 
from  her  father  was  answered  as  the  first.  She 
was  going  to  bed,  she  said,  and  would  not  dine 
with  them  that  night. 

The  maid  went  away,  and  another  hour  of 
solitude  passed.  Looking  from  her  open  window, 
down  upon  the  leads  of  the  building  below  her, 
she  could  understand  why  she  had  never  seen 
any  one  there,  and  why  they  had  put  her  in  that 
lonely  wing.  The  high  wall  at  the  rear  of  the 
garden  was  a  sentinel  more  formidable  than  any 


A  WOMAN'S  WAY  77 

servant  of  Austria.  No  woman  unaided  could 
pass  there.  Moreover,  her  room  lay  twenty  feet 
above  the  leads,  and  descent  thereto  must  be 
beyond  word  perilous.  Everything  had  been 
calculated  by  this  man  whom  Jerome's  friends 
had  sent  to  be  her  gaoler.  She  repeated  the 
assurance  often  as  twilight  deepened  and,  in  the 
sky  above,  the  red  glow  of  the  city's  lamps  began 
to  mark  the  vigil  of  the  night.  Everything  had 
been  thought  of.  Even  if  she  could  reach  the 
garden,  there  was  no  way  out  of  it  save  by  the 
gate  in  the  Avenue  Marceau ;  no  way  at  all,  she 
said,  except  by  the  public  gate  or  that  little 
window  in  the  wing  of  the  neighbouring  house — 
a  window  through  which  a  child  could  hardly 
climb,  so  small  was  it.  Little  need,  truly,  that 
they  should  spy  upon  the  garden. 

She  argued  with  herself  in  this  way  many 
times  as  she  waited  for  the  dark  to  come.  She 
was  quite  sure  of  her  conclusions.  If  the  window 
had  but  been  large  enough,  she  might  have 
descended  into  the  garden  by  the  cord  of  one  of 
her  boxes  and^have  gained  admittance  to  the  big 
house  next  door.  No  enemies  would  be  there ; 
and  strangers,  surely,  would  help  her  in  this 
strange  dilemma.  The  idea  of  appearing  sud- 
denly in  the  household  of  her  neighbours  amused 
her.  She  began  to  ask  if,  after  all,  the  little 
window,  which  overlooked  the  Count's  house, 


78  FfiO 

might  not  be  large  enough  for  her  to  climb 
through.  Her  pretty  figure  was  slim,  if  shapely. 
Nevertheless,  the  window  was  very  small.  And 
who  would  open  it  to  her  ?  She  had  never  seen 
any  one  in  the  neighbouring  house.  Failure  was 
not  to  be  thought  of.  Indeed,  she  had  almost 
abandoned  her  project  when  a  glimmer  of  light 
shone  suddenly  behind  the  very  glass  which  pro- 
voked her  argument;  and  she  knew  that  some 
one  was  in  that  room  through  which  alone  she 
could  pass  to  freedom. 

Her  heart  was  beating  fast  now,  and  mechan- 
ically she  began  to  loosen  the  rope  which  bound 
her  trunk,  and  to  tie  it,  and  tie  it  again,  to  the 
foot  of  a  great  bureau  on  the  left-hand  side  of 
her  own  window.  It  was  quite  dark  at  the 
moment,  and  she  was  glad  of  that,  for  the  dark- 
ness hid  the  terror  of  the  abyss  below  her,  and 
she  could  think  only  of  that  which  she  had  to  do 
to  gain  the  freedom  which  meant  so  much  to  her. 
She  knew  that  any  noise  would  betray  her,  even 
the  sound  of  her  own  footsteps ;  and  she  drew  off 
her  pretty  French  shoes  and  thrust  them  in  the 
bosom  of  her  dress.  Her  own  daring  amazed 
her.  She  had  always  feared  a  height;  had 
feared  even  to  stand  at  a  puny  cliff's  edge  or  to 
look  down  from  one  of  those  high  windows  in  the 
great  hotels,  of  London.  If  she  had  not  said  to 
herself  again  and  again,  "  Jerome  is  in  the  city 


SHE    CLUTCHED    THE    RUl'E    AM)    -S\Vl  Mi    OUT    UVKK 
'11IK    A11VSS." 


A  WOMAN'S  WAY  79 

waiting  for  me,"  her  new  resolution  would  have 
melted  away  at  the  beginning  of  it.  But  this 
thought  of  the  reward  of  freedom  was  as  a  gift  of 
courage  beyond  her  dreams.  Trembling,  with  a 
laugh  upon  her  lips,  half  afraid,  strong  in  hope, 
she  clutched  the  cord  and  swung  out  over  the 
abyss.  She  was  going  to  her  lover. 

It  was  a  still  night,  very  dark  and  starless,  and 
full  of  silence  out  there  in  the  garden.  She  had 
swung  herself  well  away  from  the  window,  fear- 
ing that  her  dress  might  catch  in  some  outstand- 
ing ironwork ;  but  the  rope  swayed  horribly  and 
carried  her  out  beyond  the  limit  of  the  leads,  so 
that  she  could  look  down  and  see  the  gravel-path 
forty  feet  below  her,  and  realise  that  it  would  be 
instant  death  to  fall  there.  It  came  to  her  in 
such  a  moment  that  her  life  depended  upon  her 
nerve.  An  overwhelming  sense  of  giddiness  and 
terror  troubled  her;  she  tried  convulsively  to 
grasp  again  the  ledge  of  the  window  and  to  pull 
herself  back  into  the  room;  but  the  rope  con- 
tinued to  swing,  and  she  clutched  it  with  fingers 
made  strong  in  the  fear  of  death. 

Inch  by  inch  now  she  began  to  let  herself 
down  toward  the  place  of  safety.  Her  imagi- 
nation played  strange  tricks  with  her.  There 
was  a  dreadful  instant  when  she  could  depict 
herself  falling  through  infinite  space,  falling  un- 
til her  brain  reeled  and  her  heart  stood  still. 


80  FfiO 

She  had  the  temptation  to  throw  herself  down, 
and  thus  to  end  that  intolerable  agony  of  sus- 
pense. Nevertheless,  a  truer  instinct  saved  her. 
She  saw  again  that  courage  alone  could  win  her 
freedom.  When  her  feet  at  last  touched  the 
leads,  she  was  almost  impotent  in  terror.  But 
she  knew  that  she  was  saved,  and  the  joy  of 
that  thought  brought  tears  to  her  eyes. 

Freedom,  she  stood  so  close  to  it  now !  A  few 
steps  across  the  leads,  an  effort  to  pass  the  low 
wall  intervening,  and  there  was  the  window 
which  had  cost  her  so  much  to  reach.  It  was 
larger  than  it  had  seemed  when  she  looked  down 
upon  it  from  above ;  and  she  realised  that  she 
could  easily  pass  there  if  only  some  one  would 
open  to  her.  And  so  she  tapped,  once,  twice ; 
and  becoming  bolder,  she  tried  to  shake  the 
glass — and  then  for  the  first  time  remembered 
where  she  stood  and  realised  her  folly.  Some 
one  might  hear  her  in  the  house  she  had  left. 
She  paused  with  quaking  heart  to  listen  for  any 
sound  which  would  speak  of  pursuit.  The  dis- 
tant murmur  of  the  life  of  Paris  quickened  her 
impatience.  She  was  so  near  to  liberty — so 
near  to  the  goal  for  which  she  had  dared  so 
much. 

No  one  answered  her  knock  upon  the  glass, 
and  she  repeated  it,  being  greatly  afraid  to  stand 
alone  when  any  hazard  might  tell  her  story  to 


A  WOMAN'S  WAY  81 

Lamberg  and  her  father,  and  bring  her  gaolers 
to  the  place.  Once  she  thought  to  hear  a  man's 
voice  in  the  gardens  beneath  the  great  wall; 
and  she  crouched  close  to  the  little  window,  and 
feared  to  move  or  breathe  a  full  breath.  A  little 
spell  of  waiting,  and  she  was  sure  of  her  supposi- 
tions. Men  were  there  in  the  darkness;  she 
could  hear  them  whispering.  She  knew  not 
who  they  might  be  if  not  the  servants  of  the 
man  who  had  wished  to  keep  her  a  prisoner  in 
his  house.  The  murmur  of  their  voices  affrighted 
her  to  the  last  point.  She  did  not  lift  a  hand 
while  many  long  minutes  passed,  and  when  next 
she  dared  to  tap  upon  the  window  the  clocks  of 
Paris  were  striking  one. 

It  had  been  an  act  of  despair  rather  than  of 
hope  which  led  her  thus  to  brave  discovery 
again ;  but  there  was  no  sound  of  voices  in  the 
garden  when  she  did  so,  and  the  night  breeze 
had  given  her  courage  back  to  her.  When  the 
window  was  opened  to  her  knock,  she  could 
laugh  at  her  own  surprise.  The  joy  of  success 
made  her  almost  hysterical.  A  light  flashed  in 
her  eyes ;  she  heard  some  one  speaking  to  her. 
She  was  as  a  child  released  suddenly  from  a  room 
wherein  it  has  been  punished  for  a  fault. 

"  Who  is  there ;  who  knocks  ?  " 

"  I  am  an  Englishwoman  ;  they  have  kept  me 
in  this  house  against  my  will.  Permit  me  to 


82  FfiO 

pass  into  the  street,  and  I  will  be  grateful  to 
you,  monsieur." 

"  But,  mademoiselle,  the  window  is  so  small." 

"  I  am  small,  too,  monsieur ;  if  you  hesitate, 
they  will  hear  us.  Please  help  me ! " 

The  man  held  up  the  light,  and  peeped  through 
the  window.  "  Come,"  he  said,  "  hold  my  hand 
tightly ;  now  raise  yourself ;  ah,  you  are  tearing 
your  dress,  mademoiselle ;  gently,  gently ;  what 
a  hurry  you  are  in  1 " 

Feo  dropped  lightly  to  the  floor  of  the  coach- 
house, for  it  was  to  the  coach-house  of  the  neigh- 
bouring dwelling  that  the  window  admitted  her. 
She  had  torn  her  dress  at  the  shoulder,  her  hands 
were  as  black  as  those  of  the  man  who  had 
helped  her  to  the  ground ;  she  stood  a  picture  of 
merriment  and  gladness.  At  last  she  was  free. 
The  adventure  seemed  to  her  now  to  be  some- 
thing to  laugh  at  until  the  end  of  her  life.  Her 
new  ally  joined  in  her  merriment. 

"  Ah,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "  what  a  thing 
it  is  to  be  young ! " 

He  was  an  ill-dressed  fellow,  slovenly,  and 
with  blinking  eyes,  which  moved  restlessly  in 
the  fitful  light.  Feo,  while  she  thought  that  he 
was  the  neighbour's  coachman,  began  to  be  a  lit- 
tle afraid  of  him. 

"  I  have  friends  at  the  Hotel  Chatam  who  are 
waiting  for  me,"  she  exclaimed ;  "  if  you  will  let 


"'COMIC,'  UK  SAID.    'THIS  STORY  \VO.NT  DO.'" 


83 

me  into  the  street,  I  shall  be  very  much  obliged 
to  you." 

The  man  put  down  the  lantern  deliberately. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  this  story  won't  do.  When 
a  young  lady  runs  away  from  a  house  at  mid- 
night, it  is  time  some  one  speaks  to  her  father." 

A  new  fear,  greater  than  any  she  had  known 
in  the  garden,  seized  upon  Feo  as  she  heard  him. 

"  I  am  telling  you  the  truth,"  she  protested ; 
"  you  can  come  to  the  hotel  with  me  and  prove 
it.  They  kept  me  in  that  house  against  my 
wish, — that  is  why  I  am  here." 

The  man  laughed  coarsely. 

"  Bravo !  you  have  it  all  ready,  mademoiselle. 
And  how  much  will  you  pay  me  if  I  forget  that 
I  am  an  honest  man  ?  " 

She  answered  him  by  taking  out  an  old  purse 
and  opening  it.  The  man  drew  a  step  nearer, 
and  a  strange  light  came  into  his  eyes.  She  did 
not  know  that  he  was  one  of  the  vagrants  of 
Paris  come  to  sleep  in  that  empty  coach-house 
during  the  owner's  absence  from  the  city.  He, 
in  turn,  was  using  his  bleared  eyes  to  see  if  she 
wore  jewellery. 

"  How  much  will  you  give  me,  mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  I  will  give  you  twenty  francs ! " 

"  Not  enough,  not  enough.  I  go  every  Lent  to 
hear  Pere  Didon  at  Notre  Dame.  I  am  an  honest 
man,  and  twenty  francs  do  not  buy  me." 


84 

Some  instinct  told  her  at  that  moment  that 
this  was  the  greatest  peril  of  her  life.  She 
pushed  the  purse  into  the  man's  hand,  and 
slipped  quickly  towards  the  door. 

"  That  is  all  the  money  I  have.  If  you  do  not 
take  it,  I  can  go  back  and  tell  them  what  you 
say,  monsieur." 

The  man  thrust  the  purse  into  his  ragged  coat, 
and  stood  listening.  There  was  no  sound  in  the 
street  without,  but  in  the  garden  of  Lamberg's 
house  he  could  hear  footsteps  and  low  cries.  A 
moment's  argument  convinced  him  that  safety  lay 
in  his  victim's  escape. 

"There,"  he  said,  opening  the  door  of  the 
coach-house  a  little  way,  "you  can  go  now, 
mademoiselle." 

She  fled  from  the  place  as  from  a  nameless 
terror.  She  had  gained  her  liberty,  and  stood 
alone,  in  the  dead  of  night,  homeless  and  without 
refuge  in  the  pitiless  city  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   VIOLON 

THE  stable  gave  upon  the  broad  Avenue  de 
1'Alma.  Feo  did  not  know  the  name  of  the 
Avenue ;  but  a  sure  instinct  turned  her  steps  to- 
wards the  heart  of  Paris ;  and  thither  she  hastened 
to  the  lights  and  the  ebbing  life  of  the  city's 
night.  Of  her  own  danger,  save  it  were  the  dan- 
ger in  the  house  she  had  quitted,  she  would  not 
think.  She  had  the  vague  notion  that  she  would 
find  Leslie  Druramond's  hotel,  and  there  would 
tell  her  story  to  an  English  friend.  He  would 
help  her  to  discover  Jerome.  At  the  worst  he 
would  save  her  from  these  unknown  enemies  who 
had  contrived  so  shameless  an  outrage. 

She  feared  pursuit,  and  she  went  quickly, 
avoiding  the  open  places  where  the  light  fell 
and  keeping  close  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees 
which  lined  the  Avenue.  Ever  and  anon  she 
would  listen  for  the  footsteps  which  should  speak 
of  her  peril;  but  all  was  quiet  in  that  lonely 
place,  and  what  murmur  of  sound  arose  came  to 
her  from  the  distant  boulevards.  The  silence  af- 
frighted her.  She  had  a  great  desire  to  be  where 

85 


86  FfiO 

the  world  was ;  to  see  the  lamps  before  the  cafes  : 
above  all,  to  find  her  friend.  When  she  came 
out  to  the  banks  of  the  Seine  and  began  to  hurry 
along  the  Quai  de  la  Conference  towards  the 
gardens  of  the  Tuileries,  the  moon  shone  out 
suddenly ;  and  she  beheld  the  black  river  giving 
sheen  of  gold  where  the  white  beams  touched  it. 
There  were  many  upon  the  pavements  now: 
rough  fellows  from  the  barges  and  the  boats,  who 
stared  at  her  curiously ;  wan  women  huddled 
beneath  the  shelter  of  the  parapets  to  ask  of 
night  that  the  day  might  be  forgotten ;  hunters 
of  garbage  who  worked  by  the  lantern's  light ; 
hawkers  and  thieves  and  footpads  going  south- 
ward to  their  homes.  But  she  passed  so  quickly 
that  none  observed  her;  or,  observing,  had  no 
will  to  stop  her.  A  woman  hastening  at  such 
an  hour!  To  a  rendezvous,  they  said.  They 
guessed  the  truth,  yet  not  the  whole  of  it. 

The  breeze  was  very  sweet,  there  upon  the 
quays  of  the  Seine ;  and  when  she  came  to  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde,  she  had  no  mind  to  turn 
from  the  river's  bank.  The  excitement  of  escape 
— since  escape  was  then  assured — had  abated 
somewhat,  and  left  her  to  reason  with  the  hour 
and  her  own  need.  Her  first  impulse  held  good 
no  longer.  She  laughed  at  the  idea  of  going  to 
Leslie's  hotel  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  or 
of  ringing  up  a  night-porter  to  carry  her  mes- 


THE  YIOLON  87 

sage.  Nor  could  she  imagine  where  she  might 
find  a  lodging.  Though  the  man  in  the  stable 
had  taken  her  silver,  she  had  a  twenty-franc 
piece  in  a  little  sovereign  purse  attached  to  her 
key-ring ;  but  what  would  an  hotel-keeper  say  to 
her  if  she  came  to  his  house  at  such  an  hour! 
She  determined  rather  to  walk  until  dawn,  and 
then  to  seek  shelter  as  one  who  had  just  come 
into  Paris  by  train,  and  had  left  her  luggage  at 
the  Gare.  Her  sense  of  humour  delighted  her 
with  the  picture  of  her  father's  face  when  he  had 
discovered  that  she  was  no  longer  in  Lamberg's 
house.  The  joy  of  that  victory  surpassed  all  dis- 
comforts that  the  night  might  give  her.  She 
was  a  partner  no  longer  in  her  father's  shame, 
and  never  again  would  she  look  to  him  for  home 
or  shelter. 

The  resolution  encouraged  her.  She  walked  at 
her  leisure,  for  she  had  come  to  the  gardens  of 
the  Tuileries,  and  the  lights  at  the  heart  of  Paris 
were  soon  to  shine  upon  her.  By  here  and  there, 
some  gruesome  spectacle  of  the  city's  darker  life 
could  make  her  tremble  or  warm  her  heart  to 
pity.  In  the  Eue  de  Eivoli  itself  a  party  of 
drunken  soldiers  stopped  her ;  and  one  of  them,  a 
young  officer  of  cavalry,  seized  her  by  the  wrist, 
and  dragged  her  to  the  aureole  of  light  which  a 
street  lamp  cast  upon  the  pavement. 

"  Ho,  ho !  here  is  my  friend,  Mademoiselle  la 


88  FfiO 

Doulou  reuse.  "What  do  you  say,  mademoiselle — 
shall  we  kill  the  Jews  ?  " 

"  Monsieur,"  she  said  quietly,  "  I  think  that  you 
had  better  go  home." 

A  roar  of  laughter  greeted  the  reply.  One  of 
the  man's  comrades  pushed  him  aside  and  bowed 
to  her  gallantly. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  exclaimed,  "  will  you  cry, 
Vive  V  Armee  ?  " 

"  I  would  much  sooner  cry  for  a  cabman." 

"Mademoiselle!  I  am  desolate.  I  have  no 
mother,  mademoiselle.  Permit  me  to  kiss  your 
hand." 

She  shrank  back  from  them,  wrestling  with  the 
man.  A  sergent  de  ville,  who  had  watched  the 
affair  from  the  other  side  of  the  road,  crossed 
slowly,  and  began  to  interest  himself. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  the  army  goes  to  bed 
early ;  I  will  look  after  this  young  lady." 

They  greeted  him  with  incoherent  cries,  and 
passed  on  towards  the  Place  shouting,  "  A  mart 
lea  Juifs !  "  But  the  officer  himself  turned  to 
Feo. 

"  Where  are  you  going  to,  mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  To  my  friends  at  the  Hotel  Chatam.  I  am 
an  Englishwoman  and  have  lost  my  way." 

He  looked  at  her,  doubting. 

"  You  are  very  late,  mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  Much  later  than  I  wish  to  be." 


THE  VIOLON  89 

"  And  you  will  permit  me  to  show  you  the 
hotel?"  " 

The  question  confused  her.  She  hesitated  to 
seek  out  even  such  an  old  friend  as  Leslie  Drum- 
mond  at  such  an  hour. 

"  Thank  you,  sergeant,  I  know  the  way  now. 
The  hotel  is  just  here." 

She  turned  and  hurried  on  without  waiting  for 
his  answer.  The  question  set  her  thinking.  How 
could  she  pass  those  hours  of  waiting  until  day 
came  ?  Everywhere  about  her  the  night-birds  of 
Paris  were  going  to  bed.  Carriages,  whose  bright 
electric  lamp  showed  her  the  women  she  had 
envied  that  afternoon  in  the  Bois,  women  now  in 
splendid  gowns,  with  a  burden  of  sparkling  gems 
about  their  throats,  rolled  westwards  toward  the 
avenues  she  had  left.  The  cafes  were  closing 
their  doors.  Those  who  had  neither  a  home  by 
day  nor  a  bed  by  night  turned  to  the  bridges 
spanning  the  river  and  to  the  dark  places  where 
crime  and  poverty  and  dirt  should  give  them 
harbourage.  Every  man  whom  she  passed  re- 
garded her  with  a  look  of  insult  or  of  questioning 
surprise.  She  began  to  realise  how  very  much 
alone  she  was — and  yet  she  would  not  seek  the 
Hotel  Chatam.  She  feared  to  compromise  her- 
self. It  was  always  in  her  mind  that,  if  she  went 
there,  the  Austrian  would  follow  her. 

This  fear  of  the  house  she  had  left  was,  in  truth, 


90 

the  paramount  trouble.  It  was  weary  work  to 
pace  those  silent  streets  when  her  limbs  ached 
and  her  eyes  were  heavy  with  sleep ;  but  the  very 
hour  gave  a  certain  recompense ;  and  she  fell  to 
thinking  of  all  the  people  dreaming  up  there 
behind  the  lightless  windows, — of  the  countless 
poor  huddled  in  their  dens, — of  all  that  strange 
striving  world  for  the  most  part  at  rest  and  for- 
getting its  strife.  From  such  thoughts  the  bright 
lamps  about  the  gates  of  the  Palais  Royal  carried 
her  to  a  remembrance  of  her  last  visit  to  Paris, 
when  Jerome's  love  for  her  had  banished  her 
from  Vienna.  Her  father  had  come  to  this  city 
seeking  for  his  daughter  a  fame  that  should  be  his 
fortune.  Old  Georges  de  Berthier  had  spoken 
then  of  a  triumph  she  must  win  at  the  great  opera 
house.  She  could  see  that  very  opera  house — 
yonder,  in  the  distance,  where  the  lights  of  the 
avenue  merged  into  a  nebula  as  of  stars,  and  the 
glare  from  the  boulevards  still  gave  a  loom  of 
crimson  cloud  to  the  sky.  It  was  odd  that  this 
new  visit  to  Paris  should  find  her  homeless,  with- 
out a  friend,  abroad  she  knew  not  upon  what 
quest  of  fortune.  To-morrow  she  would  have  to 
begin  to  earn  her  bread  for  herself.  To-night  at 
least  she  was  not  hungry. 

She  could  laugh  at  the  anticipation  of  the 
morrow,  for  she  did  not  yet  realise  the  full 
meaning  of  that  which  she  had  done,  or  its 


THE  VIOLON  91 

moment.  It  would  be  a  good  story  to  tell 
Jerome  when  at  last  she  found  him.  She  could 
pass  the  long  night  somehow.  Though  the  silence 
of  the  watching  hours  was  the  more  profound  as 
the  moments  passed,  it  no  longer  frightened  her. 
She  told  herself  that  some  one  at  least  would  be 
awake  until  dawn  came,  if  only  it  were  a  sergent 
de  mile.  And  there  would  be  life  in  the  railway 
stations.  She  wondered  she  had  not  thought 
of  a  railway  station  before.  Grateful  to  her 
inspiration  she  set  out  to  walk  rapidly  towards 
the  Gare  de  Lyon  and  the  eastern  quarter  of  the 
city. 

The  moon  was  at  its  full  by  this  time.  It 
shone  white  and  glorious  upon  the  swirling 
waters  of  the  river.  She  could  see  the  towers  of 
Notre  Dame  standing  up  as  stately  landmarks 
above  that  church  which  had  witnessed  so  many 
of  the  triumphs  and  the  tragedies  of  these  people 
of  Paris.  The  fresh  breezes  from  the  water 
helped  her  to  keep  awake.  How  unreal  the 
night  seemed !  She  asked  herself  if  she  had  done 
well,  thus  to  leave  her  father  upon  an  impulse 
and  to  go  to  such  a  hazardous  venture.  Stand- 
ing there  upon  the  Pont  Neuf  and  looking  down 
to  the  black  river  below,  she  thought  that  she 
could  read  the  hearts  of  those  wretched  creatures 
whom  this  city  had  driven  out  to  the  refuge  of 
the  waters.  Her  musings  took  a  strange  and 


92  FfiO 

gloomy  turn.  She  had  begun  to  forget  her  own 
courage,  when  she  heard  a  warning  footstep  and 
turned  to  see  the  sergent  de  mile  who  had  ques- 
tioned her  in  the  Rue  de  Eivoli. 

"  Ah,  mademoiselle !  you  have  not  found  your 
hotel,  then." 

Feo  knew  that  her  cheeks  were  aflame,  and 
was  grateful  for  the  darkness. 

"No,  monsieur,  I  prefer  the  fresh  air." 

"  Is  it  the  custom  in  England  for  young  ladies 
to  pass  the  night  in  the  streets  ?  " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  remembered 
to  her  annoyance  that  the  man  in  the  stable  had 
robbed  her  of  all  her  money.  There  was  only 
the  twenty-franc  piece  left  in  the  little  purse  upon 
her  key-ring.  For  this  she  began  to  search.  She 
must  make  a  friend  of  the  man. 

"There  has  been  a  misunderstanding,"  she 
said.  "  To-morrow  will  clear  it  up,  but  I  really 
don't  know  where  to  go  to-night.  If  you  could 
show  me  a  lodging,  I  would  give  you  five  francs. 
I  have  only  twenty  francs  left  until  the  morn- 
ing." 

The  sergent  de  ville  came  quite  close  to  her. 

"  When  young  ladies,  Avho  are  in  trouble,  stand 
upon  the  bridges  looking  down  into  the  river, 
mademoiselle,  it  is  certainly  time  that  some  one 
should  find  them  a  lodging.  You  have  friends 
at  the  Hotel  Chatam  ?  Very  well,  then,  come 


THE  VIOLON  93 

with  me,  and  I  will  help  you  to  find  those 
friends." 

She  looked  at  him  with  astonishment  written 
upon  her  laughing  eyes.  "  You  don't  mean  to 
say  that  you  thought " 

His  answer  was  a  gesture  as  of  one  who  would 
say,  "  What  else  am  I  to  think  ?  " 

"  But  really,  sergeant,  that  is  very  ridiculous." 

"  To  you  possibly,  mademoiselle ;  to  your 
friends  not  so  amusing.  Come  with  me  to  the 
Prefecture,  and  we  will  find  out  what  they  think 
of  it." 

He  laid  a  firm  hand  upon  her  arm,  and  led  her 
across  the  bridge.  In  spite  of  herself,  the  ridic- 
ulous situation  in  which  her  escapade  had  placed 
her  won  upon  her  humour.  The  sergeant  said 
that  he  had  seen  many  a  girl  try  to  throw  her- 
self from  the  Pont  Xeuf,  but  never  one  who  was 
so  amused  by  her  madness. 

"Come,  mademoiselle,  you  have  done  wrong, 
and  will  be  grateful  to  me  to-morrow.  I  would 
not  laugh  so  loudly  if  I  were  you." 

"  But  I  cannot  help  it,  monsieur.  Where  are 
you  taking  me  to  ?  " 

"  To  the  Prefecture.  The  rogues  of  Paris  call 
it  the  violon." 

"  You  mean  that  I  am  to  go  to  the  police-sta- 
tion." 

"  If  you  please,  mademoiselle." 


CHAPTER  XII 

TVHILE  PAEIS   SLEPT 

THEY  crossed  the  Pont  Neuf,  and  passed  along 
the  Quai  de  PHorloge.  Notwithstanding  the 
hour,  there  were  many  about  the  gates  of  the 
Palais  de  Justice — sergents  in  their  black  cloaks 
and  military  caps  and  high  boots  ;  officers  of  po- 
lice in  their  dark  uniforms ;  detectives  quit  of 
their  disguises;  even  Republican  guards  with 
their  shining  brass  helmets  and  their  clumsy 
black  horses.  From  the  Prefecture  itself  a  blaze 
of  light  shone  out  as  from  a  mighty  lamp  casting 
bright  beams  upon  the  sleeping  city,  to  be  the 
messenger  of  her  security.  Wretched  creatures, 
chiffoniers,  thieves,  ragged  women,  children  old 
in  crime,  were  the  offerings  of  the  night  to  the 
capacious  maw  of  justice.  The  dens  of  crime 
were  opened,  and  those  who  strove  with  crime 
had  forgotten  how  to  sleep. 

To  these  sights,  to  this  world  of  justice  watch- 
ful, the  sergent  de  mile  carried  Feo.  She  was 
still  very  much  amused,  and  the  man's  misplaced 
sympathy  appealed  to  her  ever-ready  humour. 
But  she  did  not  fail  to  see  that  her  adventure 
94 


WHILE  PARIS  SLEPT  95 

had  come  to  a  strange  end ;  and  her  head  was 
full  of  the  many  stories  she  might  tell  when  a 
magistrate  or  inspector,  or  whoever  it  might  be, 
came  to  question  her.  Once,  indeed,  when  a 
ruffian  in  filthy  rags  wrestled  with  an  officer  and 
laid  his  grimy  hand  roughly  upon  her  arm,  she 
experienced  for  an  instant  that  great  dread  of 
the  law  which  is  ever  the  right  of  those  who 
have  always  obeyed  the  law.  There  by  the  wa- 
ter's edge  were  the  towers  of  the  terrible  Con- 
ciergerie — that  gloomy  prison,  whose  dungeons, 
as  a  poet  of  France  has  said,  could  not  contain 
the  tears  shed  within  them.  She  asked  herself 
how  if,  by  some  subtlety  of  law,  she  should  find 
herself  in  such  a  prison  as  that.  The  cloudless 
sky  above,  the  glorious  moonlight  upon  the  spire 
of  the  Sainte  Chapelle,  the  shining  water,  the 
sweet  breeze  of  the  summer  night,  were  Nature's 
common  gifts,  which,  at  any  other  hour,  she 
would  have  looked  upon  as  the  elementary  dues 
of  her  life.  But  in  that  moment  they  became  to 
her  as  emblems  of  her  freedom.  How  if  any- 
thing should  deprive  her  of  that  freedom  ? 

It  was  not  a  very  profound  philosophy,  per- 
haps, and  she  had  forgotten  it  before  they  crossed 
the  square  of  the  palace,  and  stood  under  the 
little  red  lamp  which  marked  the  door  of  the 
police-station.  Her  curiosity  helped  her  to  this 
forgetfulness.  What  were  they  going  to  do  with 


96 

her  ?  she  asked  herself.  Surely  it  was  no  crime 
in  Paris  to  be  found  out  of  your  house,  when  a 
policeman  thought  that  you  should  be  in  your 
bed.  She  determined  that  silence  was  her  best 
friend ;  and  resolute  at  any  hazard  to  give  them 
no  clue  to  the  affair  in  the  Avenue  Marceau,  she 
entered  the  police-station. 

It  was  a  small  room,  brightly  lighted,  but 
destitute  of  any  furniture.  An  inspector,  seated 
at  a  desk  upon  the  right-hand  side  of  the  en- 
trance, put  on  his  glasses  when  the  sergent  de 
mile  began  his  explanation ;  and  others,  officers 
on  duty,  detectives,  spies,  grouped  themselves 
about  her,  and  began  to  stare  at  her  as  at  one 
who  had  lost  the  right  to  resent  such  attentions. 
She,  in  turn,  remembered  that  she  was  an  English- 
woman, and  drew  herself  up  proudly,  repressing 
that  haunting  smile  which  would  hover  about 
the  corners  of  the  mouth.  What  might  happen 
in  that  place  was  of  no  concern  to  her,  unless  it 
should  take  her  back  to  the  Avenue  Marceau,  to 
the  house  of  the  man  who  had  sought  to  keep 
her  from  Jerome.  She  did  not  think  that  any  law 
could  so  compel  a  woman  ;  and  with  this  hope  to 
give  her  courage,  she  listened  to  the  inspector. 

"  Mademoiselle,  you  say  that  you  are  English. 
Will  you  please  to  give  us  your  name?  You 
speak  French,  mademoiselle  ?  " 

"All  English  people  speak  French,"  she  an- 


WHILE  PARIS  SLEPT  97 

swered  with  a  laugh;  "if  the  French  do  not 
understand  them,  it  is  their  own  misfortune." 

The  inspector  stared  at  her  through  his  gold- 
rimmed  glasses. 

"Come,  mademoiselle,  we  do  not  wish  to  be 
amused.  You  speak  French  charmingly.  Please 
to  tell  me  your  name." 

"  My  name  is  Feo  de  Berthier.  I  am  an  Eng- 
lishwoman. I  live  in  Oxford  Street,  which  is  in 
London,  monsieur.  I  have  friends  at  the  Hotel 
Chatam.  Please  do  not  ask  me  any  more  ques- 
tions, for  I  am  tired." 

She  spoke  very  rapidly,  with  the  air  of  one 
who  would  say,  "  There  it  all  is ;  please  let  us 
have  done  with  it."  The  inspector,  who  had 
begun  to  enter  her  name  in  his  book,  but  who 
could  not  keep  up  with  her  torrent  of  words,  put 
down  his  pen  despairingly. 

"  Ha ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  you  should  go  to  the 
Palais  Royal.  Where  do  you  say  that  your 
friends  are  ?  " 

"At  the  Hotel  Chatam.  Send  there  to  Mr. 
Leslie  Drummond,  and  he  will  tell  you  all  about 
me.  I  am  tired  of  talking  to  people  about  my- 
self." 

"  But  we  are  very  much  interested,  mademoi- 
selle. When  a  young  lady  walks  about  the  streets 
of  Paris  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  she  can- 
not fail  to  be  interesting." 


98  FfiO 

"Is  it  forbidden  in  Paris  to  walk  about  the 
streets  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  ?  " 

"Under  certain  circumstances,  certainly  it  is 
forbidden.  The  officer  has  done  well  to  bring 
you  here.  Your  actions  were  suspicious." 

"  How  important  you  make  me  feel,  monsieur  ! 
To  think  that  I  was  only  an  ordinary  person  yes- 
terday, and  now,  why  even  you  are  interested  in 
me!" 

The  officer  smiled  in  spite  of  himself.  A  pretty 
woman  wins  her  way  anyway ;  and  Feo  had  never 
looked  so  pretty.  Her  very  want  of  colour,  the 
warning  lines  beneath  her  eyes,  gave  her  piquant 
face  an  added  charm.  The  detectives  said  that 
she  had  quarrelled  with  her  lover,  and  ceased  to 
interest  themselves  in  her  professionally.  But 
there  were  many  in  that  room  who  would  have 
thought  themselves  happy  to  have  been  in  the 
lover's  place. 

"  Tell  us  why  you  have  left  your  friends, 
mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  For  a  very  simple  reason :  I  no  longer  wished 
to  stay  with  them." 

"  You  mean  that  you  had  some  trouble  which 
took  you  from  home  ?  " 

"  My  friends  would  call  it  that.  I  call  it  a 
difference  of  opinion.  You  see  how  logical  I 
am." 

"And  if  we  were  to  send  you   back  to  the 


THE   OKKICKR    SMILKI)    IN    Sl'ITK   OK    HIMSELF.1 


WHILE  PAKIS  SLEPT  99 

Hotel  Chatam  now,  you  would  promise  not  to 
look  into  the  river  again  ?  " 

Feo  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Oh,  monsieur,"  she  said,  "  please  don't  be 
stupid.  If  you  knew  how  I  disliked  the 
water ! " 

The  officer  nodded  his  head,  and  conferred  a 
moment  with  the  sergent.  Feo  was  very  tired, 
and  prone  to  be  a  little  hysterical.  She  was 
worn  out  with  the  effort  of  the  night. 

"  How  long  must  I  stand  here  ? "  she  asked 
wearily. 

The  words  were  magical.  Three  of  the  detec- 
tives ran  to  bring  a  chair.  The  inspector  himself 
came  out  of  his  box  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  we  are  not  going  to  be  un- 
kind to  you.  I  have  sent  a  messenger  to  the 
Hotel  Chatam.  Your  friends  will  return  with 
him.  Meanwhile " 

He  hesitated.  The  girl's  hope  waxed  strong. 
She  was  not  to  be  asked  about  the  Avenue 
Marceau,  then. 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  meanwhile  ?  " 

"  Meanwhile  we  shall  give  you  a  glass  of  wine. 
This  way,  if  you  please,  mademoiselle." 

He  opened  the  door  of  a  smaller  room  behind 
the  office,  and  bade  her  enter.  An  officer  in  uni- 
form carried  a  bottle  of  good  Bordeaux,  and  set 
it  on  the  plain  wooden  table.  Feo  sank  into  the 


100  FfiO 

deal  chair  as  though  she  would  never  have  the 
strength  to  rise  again. 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  me,"  she  said.  "  I  shall 
be  interesting  to  my  English  friends  for  the  rest 
of  my  life.  To  have  spent  a  night  in  the  Pre- 
fecture !  Some  people  Avould  lecture  about  it, 
monsieur." 

"  Drink  a  glass  of  wine,  mademoiselle,  and 
that  will  help  you  to  be  eloquent.  To-morrow 
you  will  laugh  at  it  all.  And  you  will  say  that 
we  were  not  such  dreadful  people.  "We  do  not 
eat  our  prisoners." 

He  pushed  the  glass  towards  her  and  watched 
her  drink  the  wine.  Then  he  returned  to  his 
desk.  A  sergent  de  ville  had  come  in  with  two 
women,  whose  cries  and  oaths  resounded  through 
the  building  in  a  deafening  clamour.  Something 
of  the  more  terrible  side  of  Paris  life  was  shown 
to  her  in  that  moment.  She  beheld  the  women 
striking  at  each  other  and  at  the  officers  who 
held  them ;  she  saw  them  surrounded  by  many 
men,  who  pinioned  them,  and  so  carried  them  to 
that  corridor  of  police  cells  which  Paris  has 
called  "  the  mousetrap."  It  was  a  vivid,  haunting 
scene  ;  it  compelled  her  to  say  again,  "  How  if  I 
were  never  to  escape  from  this  place  ? "  The 
contrasts  of  her  life  were  odd  indeed.  She  was 
singing  at  Covent  Garden  but  a  few  days  ago ; 
was  dreaming  of  the  day  when  the  triumphs  of 


WHILE  PARIS  SLEPT  101 

Melba  and  Calve  might  be  hers.  To-night,  the 
singer  had  become  a  prisoner  in  the  greatest  of 
the  prisons  of  Paris  ;  she  had  left  her  father  for 
ever ;  was  alone,  without  a  friend,  unless  Leslie 
Drummond  should  come  to  her,  in  the  greatest 
crisis  of  her  life.  And  of  all  her  thoughts,  this  lat- 
ter nerved  her  most  surely.  She  told  herself  cour- 
ageously that  she  would  find  Jerome  to-morrow, 
though  her  father  himself  came  to  the  Concier- 
gerie  to  forbid  her  freedom. 

Others  were  brought  to  the  Prefecture — a 
beggar  accused  of  picking  pockets ;  a  young 
soldier  charged  with  stabbing  a  comrade ;  a  well- 
schooled  thief,  who  bowed  to  the  detectives  and 
greeted  them  affably.  This  fellow  helped  her 
mind  away  from  the  exciting  train  of  thought 
to  which  she  had  been  led.  He  was  an  amusing 
rogue.  "Look  at  my  thumbs,  gentlemen,"  he 
said ;  "  you  will  find  new  marks  upon  them  since 
I  was  here  before.  They  are  marks  of  the 
jemmy.  Do  not  forget  that  I  put  you  up  to 
it.  You  will  say  something  for  me,  gentle- 
men, and  when  I  come  out  I  will  send  you  the 
drawing-room  clock.  Ah,  you  do  not  want 
the  drawing-room  clock.  Cre  nom — I  have  no 
luck." 

They  took  the  fellow  away  to  a  cell ;  and  when 
another  spell  of  waiting  had  passed,  the  inspector 
returned  to  the  little  room  wherein  Feo  was  sit- 


102 

ting.  He  found  her  with  her  head  buried  in  her 
arms,  fast  asleep. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "  this  is  a  hard  bed. 
Your  English  friend  is  here,  and  we  are  going 
to  send  you  back  with  him." 

She  awoke  with  a  start,  and  saw,  behind  the 
Frenchman,  the  burly  figure  and  good-humoured 
face  of  her  friend,  Leslie  Drummond. 

"Leslie!"  she  cried,  holding  out  both  her 
hands  to  him,  "  I  knew  you  would  come." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IN  THE   RUE   AUBER 

HE  had  brought  a  cab  to  the  Prefecture,  and 
he  led  her  towards  it  without  a  word.  Dawn 
glimmered  in  the  sky  then,  and  a  weird,  grey 
light  of  day  began  to  war  with  the  street  lamps 
and  to  shame  them.  The  morning  air  was  sharp 
and  chill,  and  she  shivered  when  it  blew  upon  her 
face. 

"  I  thought  you  might  be  cold,  so  I  brought 
a  second  coat,"  was  Leslie's  first  remark  as  he 
opened  the  door  of  the  cab.  "It's  a  beautiful 
thing  in  Scotch  plaids,  and  always  gets  a  rise  out 
of  the  busmen.  I  say,  Feo,  I  was  surprised." 

He  shut  the  door,  and  began  to  wrap  her  up  in 
the  great  Scotch  coat.  She  could  see  that  he  had 
put  on  his  own  clothes  anyhow,  and  that  he  wore 
an  old  Cambridge  scarf  about  his  neck  in  lieu  of 
a  collar.  There  had  been  a  certain  constraint  of 
the  situation  while  the  inspector  listened  to  them  ; 
and,  even  afterwards,  she  hesitated  to  tell  her 
story. 

"  You  were  surprised,  of  course,  Leslie  ?  " 

"  Surprised — well,  it  was  a  little  sudden.     I'd 

103 


104  FlilO 

been  dreaming  about  you,  Feo,  and  we  were 
going,  heaven  knows  where  together.  Then  we 
got  into  a  railway  carriage,  and  a  man  began  to 
bang  on  the  roof  with  a  stick.  It  was  the  fellow 
at  the  hotel  trying  to  call  me." 

She  became  grave. 

"What  ridiculous  things  dreams  are!  Of 
course  I  sent  to  you  because  I  was  in  trouble. 
There  is  no  one  else  in  Paris  who  would  help  me. 
I  knew  that  you  would." 

"That's  taken  for  granted.  Why  am  I  in 
Paris  at  all,  if  it  is  not  to  help  you?  And 
you're  going  to  tell  me  all  about  it — from  the 
first  line  to  the  last.  I  haven't  much  of  a  top- 
knot, Feo;  but  I  think  that  I  could  weather 
those  Austrian  chaps  if  it  came  to  it.  I'll  try, 
anyway." 

He  spoke  very  simply ;  and  followed  too  sound 
a  code  of  honour  to  permit  himself  to  utter  even 
a  word  to  his  own  advantage.  Nor  did  that 
aspect  of  their  meeting  occur  to  her.  A  woman, 
who  loves,  is  ever  incapable  of  viewing  her 
actions  in  any  other  light  than  that  of  her  own 
happiness.  Leslie  would  help  her  because  he 
was  her  friend.  He  knew  that  she  could  never 
be  more.  She  had  told  him  that  often.  And  so 
she  related  to  him  the  whole  story  of  her  days  in 
the  Avenue  Marceau,  beginning  with  the  visit  of 
Captain  Lamberg  to  London  and  ending  with  her 


IN  THE  RUE  AUBER  105 

arrest  on  the  Pont  Neuf.  Not  until  that  point 
did  he  interrupt  her. 

"  What  a  complete  ass ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  That's 
like  these  Frenchmen ;  they  suspect  a  man  every 
time  he  sneezes.  Why  didn't  you  come  straight 
to  my  hotel  ?  " 

"At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning?  My  dear 
Leslie — and,  besides,  they  might  have  followed 
me  there." 

He  turned  with  a  look  of  surprise,  and  forgot 
to  laugh  at  the  idea  of  the  sergent  de  mile  arrest- 
ing her.  Her  words  frightened  him.  He  said 
that  the  danger  was  as  great  now  as  when  she 
stood  in  the  Prefecture.  And  no  sooner  did  he 
understand  the  possibility  of  pursuit  than  he  let 
down  the  window,  and  began  to  bawl  a  new 
direction  to  the  cabman,  who  pulled  up  abruptly, 
being  unable  to  comprehend  a  word  of  the  tongue 
which  Eton  had  taught  her  sons  and  had  called 
French. 

"  Tell  him,  Feo.  These  cabmen  are  all  fools. 
They  don't  understand  plain  English.  Tell  him 
not  to  go  back  to  the  Chatam.  I  was  an  idiot  to 
suggest  it.  They'll  inquire  there,  of  course. 
Don't  you  see  that  your  father  is  capable  of 
appealing  to  the  police.  Tell  the  man  to  drive 
to  a  railway  station — the  Gare  St.  Lazare ;  any- 
where, if  it  isn't  to  my  place." 

She  gave  the  direction,  and  the  cab  rolled  on. 


106 

A  hundred  yards  from  the  Rue  du  Louvre  they 
passed  another  carriage  driving  at  a  gallop 
towards  the  Prefecture  they  had  left ;  and  as  it 
passed  Feo  recognised  her  father.  Her  face  was 
very  white  and  drawn  when  next  she  spoke. 

"  You  came  just  in  time,"  she  said  quietly.  "  In 
any  case,  I  should  not  have  seen  him ;  at  least, 
there  is  no  law  which  would  have  compelled  me 
to  return  to  his  house." 

"  There  can't  be.  If  it  comes  to  that,  I'll  drive 
you  straight  to  the  Embassy  and  tell  your  story. 
It  would  be  a  safe  course,  though  I  don't  suppose 
you'd  see  it  in  that  light." 

"  You  mean  that  it  would  keep  me  from 
Jerome  ?  " 

"Naturally  it  would.  Our  people  couldn't 
help  telling  the  Austrians  what  was  going  on, 
and  your  friend  would  be  back  in  Vienna  to- 
morrow night.  That  won't  do,  eh,  Feo  ?  " 

He  turned  a  pair  of  wistful  eyes  upon  her,  but 
she  would  not  look  into  his  face. 

"You  are  very  generous,  Leslie,"  she  said. 
"Of  course  I  must  find  Prince  Jerome  to-day. 
He  has  come  from  Vienna  to  see  me.  I  prom- 
ised him  that  I  would  go  to  him  whenever 
he  sent  for  me,  arid  that  is  a  promise  I  cannot 
break." 

"  You  shall  not  break  it  if  I  can  do  anything 
to  help  you.  But  we  shall  have  hard  work,  for 


IN  THE  EUfi  AUBEK  107 

they'll  watch  him  night  and  day.     The  question 

is,  what  are  we  going  to  do  until  decent  people 

are  up  again  ?    Do  you  know  that  it's  just  four 

o'clock?" 

.     She  smiled  for  the  first  time  since  they  left  the 

Conciergerie. 

"I  never  thought  that  you  and  I  would  be 
driving  about  Paris  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing," she  said  frankly.  "  Do  you  think  that  you 
can  keep  awake  until  breakfast  time  ?  I'm  sure 
that  I  can't." 

"  But  we  must,  Feo.  It's  just  a  case  of  hunt 
the  slipper.  Those  people  will  follow  us  all  over 
Paris.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  the  police  helped 
them.  "We've  got  to  depend  upon  our  wits  and  to 
play  the  game.  If  we  went  back  to  the  Chatam 
now,  your  father  would  be  there  before  the 
chamber-maids  were  up.  He's  clever  enough, 
and  he's  sure  to  remember  me.  The  thing  to  do 
is  to  dodge  them  until  I  can  send  a  line  to  your 
Austrian  friend.  I  shall  do  that  myself." 

Again  he  turned  his  questioning  eyes  upon 
her,  but  again  she  avoided  them.  She  dared  not, 
would  not  speak  a  word  which  might  give  him 
greater  hope  of  their  friendship  than  the  past 
had  justified. 

"  It  was  clever  to  think  of  a  railway  station, 
Leslie.  They  would  go  to  the  Gare  du  ISTord  if 
they  went  anywhere.  Prince  Jerome  is  at  the 


108  FfiO 

Hotel  Vendome,  I  believe.  It  would  not  be  dif- 
ficult to  send  a  message  there." 

"Meanwhile  you  haven't  been  to  bed,  and 
must  be  dying  for  an  hour's  sleep.  I'll  tell  you 
what — we'll  go  to  the  first  cafe  we  see  open,  and 
I'll  ask  the  man  to  let  you  lie  down.  That's  one 
of  those  brilliantly  commonplace  notions  which 
need  a  philosopher  to  discover.  There's  the  very 
place  over  by  the  lamp  there." 

They  were  in  the  Rue  Auber  at  the  moment, 
almost  at  the  doors  of  a  small  cafe  in  whose 
porch  there  stood  a  sleepy  waiter,  and  at  whose 
tables  sat  three  or  four  shabby  people  taking 
their  morning  coffee.  All  stared  sharply  at  the 
immense  Englishman  and  the  graceful  girl,  who 
accompanied  him  to  one  of  the  little  tables  at  the 
farthest  end  of  the  long  room.  Wan  light  of 
down-turned  lamps  illumined  the  place,  and  hid 
its  shabbiness  from  the  searching  gleam  of  dawn. 
Leslie  congratulated  himself  as  he  offered  Feo  a 
chair  and  beckoned  the  now  active  waiter. 

"  Madame  and  I  are  just  arrived  from  Geneva. 
We  leave  for  London  this  afternoon." 

The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  did  not 
understand  a  word  of  it.  Leslie  looked  angrily 
at  Feo,  who  refused  to  be  serious. 

"That's  a  fine  piece  of  imagination  wasted, 
anyway,"  said  he.  "  You'd  better  try  your  hand 
at  it,  Feo.  Tell  him  we're  in  from  Geneva,  and 


"'MADAME  AND  i  HAVE  JUST  ARRIVED  FROM  GENEVA.'" 


IN  THE  KUE  AUBER  109 

ask  if  you  can  stop  here  while  I  go  and  do  some 
business  somewhere.  Don't  look  as  if  you  didn't 
believe  a  word  of  it.  Incredulity  is  catching." 

Feo  turned  to  the  waiter  and  asked  if  she 
could  have  a  room.  The  man  told  himself  al- 
ready that  here  was  a  young  English  couple 
upon  a  honeymoon ;  and  he  was  all  civility. 

"  Certainly.  Madame  could  have  an  apartment 
while  monsieur  went  to  the  city.  Meanwhile,  the 
coffee  was  hot — better  coffee  than  you  could  get 
at  the  Gare,  and  no  bad  money.  They  always 
gave  the  English  people  bad  money  at  the  Gare 
because  the  English  people  were  generally  in  a 
hurry.  Undoubtedly  they  were  great  thieves 
there.  Madame  should  be  served  on  the  in- 
stant." 

He  was  off  with  a  surprising  display  of  agil- 
ity, and  back  again  with  steaming  coffee  and 
crisp  new  bread  and  creamy  butter  before  Feo 
had  unbuttoned  her  gloves.  Leslie  occupied  him- 
self staring  blankly  at  the  deserted  street  with- 
out. He  did  not  like  to  tell  Feo  that  he  feared 
her  father  had  seen  them,  nor  would  he  confess 
his  own  fears  for  her  success.  Any  minute,  he 
said,  might  bring  the  police  or  the  Austrian  to 
the  door.  It  was  more  exciting  than  a  close 
finish  at  Henley,  for  there  you  played  an  honest 
game ;  while  here — well,  he  could  not  so  much 
as  estimate  the  daring  and  the  resources  and  the 


110 

pitilessness  of  those  who  waged  the  war  against 
the  brave  girl  he  had  sworn  to  befriend. 

"  I  don't  suppose  they'll  look  for  us  in  the  Rue 
Auber,  wherever  else  they  go,"  he  said,  with  an 
honest  effort  to  console  her  ;  "  if  we  can  only  get 
twelve  hours  to  ourselves,  the  rest  would  be  easy. 
I'd  better  run  round  to  the  Hotel  Vendome  as 
soon  as  it's  decent  to  turn  up  there.  If  you'll 
write  what  you  want  to  say,  I'll  see  that  the 
man  delivers  the  letter.  After  that,  it  is  be- 
tween you  and  your  friend." 

The  note  of  sorrowful  resignation  made  his 
voice  quaver.  He  was  not  an  emotional  man ; 
but  this  love  of  his  had  become  the  mainstay  of 
his  life.  To  surrender  Feo,  the  Feo  who  had 
seemed  to  him  the  one  woman  in  all  the  world, 
who  was  at  once  his  ideal  of  beauty,  of  gentle- 
ness, and  of  woman's  nobility,  implied  a  sacrifice 
greater  than  he  dared  to  contemplate.  The  fact 
that  she  thanked  him  so  earnestly,  so  prettily, 
was  the  ultimate  irony  of  that  encounter. 

"  I  could  never  be  grateful  enough,  Leslie,"  she 
said,  with  a  great  tenderness  in  her  voice.  "  If  I 
can  only  see  Jerome,  I  don't  care  what  comes 
after.  My  father  is  a  coward,  and  will  only 
dare  what  others  dare  for  him.  Captain  Lam- 
berg  is  a  man  whom  a  woman  might  fear.  But 
I  should  not  fear  him  if  Jerome  knew." 

"He   shall  know   in   an  hour  at   the   latest. 


IN  THE  KITE  AUBER  111 

Meanwhile,  if  Providence  would  only  send  that 
Austrian  scoundrel  my  way,  I'd  give  him  a  token 
of  your  regard  he  wouldn't  forget  for  a  month. 
Those  mincing  dandies  in  gold  buttons  and  blue 
trousers  are  all  the  same.  They're  too  polite 
when  it  suits  them;  and  when  it  doesn't  suit 
them,  they  prate  about  honour  and  other  non- 
sense. The  truth  is  that  they  haven't  got  enough 
honour  amongst  them  to  fill  a  saltspoon." 

"  You  misjudge  the  Austrians,"  she  protested. 
"  They  are  the  politest  nation  in  Europe ;  I  think 
that  they  are  also  one  of  the  best.  Jerome  is  the 
soul  of  honour.  The  best  proof  is  that  he  is  in 
Paris  now." 

"  And  that  I  am  going  to  see  him.  Well,  Feo, 
if  you  are  happy,  what  can  I  say  ?  " 

"  You  can  say  that  I  shall  never  forget." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  rose  from  the 
table.  It  was  six  o'clock  then,  and  he  had  deter- 
mined to  go  to  the  Hotel  Yendome  at  the  earliest 
possible  moment,  lest  others  should  be  before 
him.  Feo,  in  turn,  would  not  hear  of  the  room 
nor  of  the  rest  he  wished  her  to  take. 

"How  could  I  sleep?"  she  asked.  "I  shall 
count  the  minutes  until  you  bring  me  news." 

"  Then  you  shan't  count  many  if  I  can  help  it. 
Good-bye,  Feo." 

He  just  touched  her  hand  and  left  the  cafe 
quickly. 


112  FfiO 

She  remembered  afterwards  that  he  did  not 
look  round  or  make  any  sign  as  he  passed  into 
the  street.  When  he  \vas  gone,  the  waiter  brought 
her  the  morning  papers ;  but  she  had  neither  the 
will  nor  the  desire  to  read  them.  Every  foot- 
step upon  the  pavement  excited  her  strangely. 
She  knew  that  a  hundred  chances  might  betray 
her  secret  both  to  her  father  and  to  the  police. 
The  idea  that  these  enemies  of  hers  were  awake 
and  busy  in  their  desire  to  draw  this  net  about  her 
quickened  her  faculties  and  hardened  her  re- 
solve. She  had  a  woman's  wit,  and  she  would 
use  it  to  cut  the  meshes  of  the  net  and  to  secure 
her  freedom.  And  in  this  sense  she  was  glad  to 
be  alone,  to  depend  upon  her  own  heart  and 
courage.  She  would  see  Jerome,  would  see  him 
that  day — if — if — ah,  if ! 

And  so  she  watched  the  city  waking,  the 
gathering  crowds  upon  the  pavements,  the  wax- 
ing life  of  the  new  day,  the  ripening  glory  of  the 
summer  morning.  Minute  by  minute  the  voice 
of  Paris  intensified.  Shopmen  began  to  take 
down  their  shutters  ;  cabs  rolled  by  to  the  Gare  ; 
the  pompiers,  who  cleaned  the  streets,  were  busy 
with  their  hoses ;  hurrying  people  passed  in  and 
out  of  the  cafes ;  the  morning  papers  came,  in 
untidy  bundles,  to  the  kiosks;  the  railway  sta- 
tion itself  echoed  with  the  shriek  of  whistles  and 
the  clamour  of  arriving  trains.  Two  hours  passed 


A  VISITOR,   MADAMK;   HK  WAITS   HKI.OW. 


IN  THE  KITE  AUBER  113 

whilst  she  tried  to  concern  herself  with  this  bus- 
tling scene ;  but  Leslie  did  not  return.  She  could 
not  guess  what  disappointment  kept  him,  nor  why 
he  forgot  his  promise.  No  possibility  of  misfor- 
tune there  was  which  did  not  suggest  itself  to 
her.  If  anything  had  happened  to  Jerome !  If 
the  Austrian  had  contrived  that  he  was  no  longer 
in  Paris ! 

She  stood  in  her  bedroom  at  that  time,  tidying 
her  wind-blown  hair  and  looking  at  the  weary 
white  face  which  the  glass  showed  her.  The  de- 
lay was  almost  more  than  she  could  bear.  She 
had  the  impulse  to  go  out  into  the  street  and  to 
walk  about  until  the  news  came ;  but  her  good 
sense  restrained  her.  Leslie  would  come  back, 
she  was  sure.  He,  at  any  rate,  could  have 
nothing  to  fear  from  those  in  the  Avenue 
Marceau.  Nevertheless,  another  hour  passed  and 
Leslie  did  not  return.  It  was  twelve  o'clock  and 
the  summer's  day  was  at  its  zenith  when  the 
ready  waiter  came  to  her  room  and  broke  that 
spell  of  doubt  and  of  uncertainty. 

"A  visitor,  madame — he  waits  below.  He 
does  not  give  his  name." 

"  It  is  not  the  Englishman  who  was  with  me 
this  morning  ?  " 

"  No,  madame,  it  is  another." 

Feo  put  on  her  hat  slowly.  All  the  blood 
flamed  in  her  cheeks  again.  Who  was  the 


114  FfiO 

stranger  who  would  not  give  his  name?  She 
knew  that,  if  it  were  not  Jerome,  then  it  must  be 
her  father  or  Captain  Lamberg.  The  suspense 
of  that  moment  was  intolerable.  She  went  down 
the  stairs  with  quick  steps.  Everything  told  her 
that  this  was  the  momentous  hour. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   COUNTER-MARCH 

HE  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  with  his  back 
towards  her ;  but  he  turned  when  he  heard  her 
step.  Some  good  instinct  told  her  who  it  was 
even  before  she  saw  his  face.  There  was  little 
sunlight  in  that  long,  windowless  room ;  never- 
theless, she  could  read  in  his  eyes  the  welcome  he 
wished  to  give  her,  and  when  her  hand  touched 
his  it  was  as  though  the  waiting  message  of  those 
weary  months  had  at  last  been  spoken. 

"  Jerome  !  "  she  cried ;  and  so  stood  with  beat- 
ing heart  and  flushed  face. 

She  had  dreamed  of  that  instant  a  hundred 
times  since  the  word  of  farewell  was  spoken  in 
the  woods  by  the  Danube.  The  reality  surpassed 
the  dream,  in  spite  of  the  dangers  attending. 

"  Feo— at  last ! " 

Some  spell  seemed  to  have  been  upon  him  un- 
til that  moment.  He  held  her  hand  as  in  a  vice  ; 
but,  until  the  words  were  spoken,  he  did  not  be- 
tray the  changing  emotions  which  muted  his  lips 
so  surely.  Now,  however,  he  bent  of  a  sudden 

115 


and  kissed  her.  His  touch  was  as  fire  in  her 
veins.  She  knew  then  that  her  desire  to  find  him 
was  no  shame. 

"Jerome,"  she  said,  "you  wished  it — tell  me 
that  you  wished  it  ?  " 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  as  in  a  shielding 
gesture. 

"  As  I  wish  my  own  life." 

She  drew  back  from  him  with  rosy  face  and 
eyes  wet  with  tears. 

"  I  cannot  believe  it,"  she  exclaimed ;  "  I  can- 
not believe  that  yesterday  was  true." 

"  I  am  here  to  convince  you,  Feo.  That  is  why 
I  left  Vienna.  It  has  been  a  long  journey,  and 
we  have  some  way  yet  to  go.  But  it  will  be 
easier  now." 

She  laughed  at  her  very  happiness. 

"  There  is  so  much  to  tell  you,  Jerome — so 
much.  I  shall  never  begin  at  the  beginning. 
And  here — in  this  place  — 

She  pointed  to  the  little  tables  in  the  front 
room  of  the  cafe — tables  now  tenanted  by  clerks 
and  poor  gentlemen  taking  their  breakfasts.  The 
oddity  of  their  encounter  amused  her.  That  it 
should  have  been  in  this  stuffy  restaurant,  in  a 
by-street  of  Paris.  Months  ago  they  had  planned 
it  so  differently.  He  was  to  come  to  her  in  Lon- 
don, to  find  her  in  the  great  house  which  her 
talent  had  built  for  her. 


THE  COUNTER-MARCH  117 

""Were  you  not  surprised?"  she  asked  pres- 
ently. 

"Not  at  all.  I  was  only  puzzled.  When  I 
heard  that  you  were  not  in  London,  I  knew  that 
Lamberg  had  taken  you  to  Paris.  He  is  my 
father's  agent — a  poor  one  at  the  best.  We  shall 
find  that  it  is  always  easy  to  circumvent  a  liar. 
More  than  that,  it  is  amusing,  if  you  know  how 
to  handle  your  weapons  properly.  But  we  must 
choose  our  own  ground.  I  quite  expect  that  they 
have  followed  me  from  the  hotel ;  and  they  will 
now  have  the  pleasure  of  following  me  to  Dur- 
and's.  You  are  hungry,  Feo  ?  " 

He  spoke  with  a  great  confidence,  as  of  one 
accustomed  to  be  obeyed  and  refusing  to  hear  of 
obstacles.  Listening  to  him,  she  forgot  her  own 
doubts,  and  remembered  only  that  she  stood  at 
his  side  again. 

"  When  my  father  knows  that  I  have  met  you, 
he  will  tell  your  friends,"  she  said;  "you  have 
thought  of  that  ?  " 

"  I  have  thought  of  many  things.  I  cannot  say 
that  your  excellent  father  is  one  of  them.  When 
we  have  had  our  breakfast,  and  the  man,  who  is 
following  me,  tires  of  waiting  on  the  steps  of  the 
Madeleine,  we  will  begin  to  think  again,  Feo. 
The  important  fact  is  that  I  am  hungry." 

He  threw  a  twenty-franc  piece  to  the  waiter, 
and  passed  out  of  the  cafe.  A  fiacre  waited  for 


118  FEO 

him,  and  he  held  her  hand  while  she  entered  it, 
and  then  seated  himself  fearlessly  at  her  side. 
Brilliant  sunshine  flooded  the  Rue  Auber.  The 
surrounding  boulevards  were  glittering  with  the 
fuller  life  of  the  day.  She  could  not  realise  the 
change  that  a  few  hours  had  wrought,  but  was 
conscious  of  an  enduring  excitement  as  of  un- 
certainty made  certain,  and  a  finality  which  she 
had  never  known  before. 

"You  are  sure  that  they  followed  you, 
Jerome  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure.  There  is  the  fellow  in  that  yel- 
low-wheeled cab  behind  us.  He  has  been  follow- 
ing me  ever  since  I  came  to  Paris.  He  will  have 
fine  news  for  the  Embassy  to-night.  If  it  were 
any  one  else,  all  sorts  of  things  would  happen. 
Possibly  they  will  even  try  to  get  me  out  of  Paris 
— after  I  have  left.  You  see,  I  don't  want  to  be 
unkind  to  them,  and,  since  they  desire  very  much 
that  I  should  leave,  I  am  going  by  the  eight 
o'clock  train  to-night." 

Her  face  clouded.  That  shadow  of  doubt  and 
danger  again  loomed  before  her.  Her  momentary 
sense  of  happiness  was  swift  to  pass.  They  were 
two  children  playing.  She  must  forget  the  game. 

"  You  are  quite  right  to  go,"  she  said ;  "  I 
could  not  let  you  suffer  this  indignity  for  my 
sake.  I  meant  to  tell  you  so,  when  I  asked  Mr. 
Drummond  to  go  to  your  hotel  this  morning." 


THE  COUNTER-MARCH  119 

He  took  her  hand  in  his  and  pressed  it. 

"  I  like  your  English  friend,"  he  said ;  "  we 
need  men  of  his  stamp  in  Austria.  I  have  al- 
ways thought  that  I  should  like  to  be  an  Eng- 
lishman for  your  sake,  Feo.  But  you  will  teach 
me.  And,  after  all,  there  is  no  nationality  in 
love." 

"  Leslie  has  been  very  good  to  me,"  she  ex- 
claimed. "  I  am  glad  that  he  is  in  Paris,  after 
what  has  happened.  When  you  have  gone  to- 
night, I  shall  be  quite  alone  here." 

He  laughed  at  the  completeness  of  her  plan. 

"And  to-morrow — to-morrow,  little  pessi- 
mist?" 

She  rested  her  chin  in  her  hand. 

"  To-morrow,  you  will  be  in  the  train  for 
Vienna,  and  I  shall  be  in  London." 

The  fiacre  drove  up  to  Durand's  as  she  spoke, 
and  he  sprang  to  the  pavement  and  took  both 
her  hands  as  she  alighted.  The  other  cab,  the 
one  with  the  yellow  wheels,  stopped  some  little 
way  from  the  cafe,  and  a  smartly  dressed  man 
followed  them  to  the  door  of  the  restaurant. 

"  You  see,"  said  Jerome,  "  the  fellow  is  there, 
sure  enough.  He  is  anxious  to  know  what  we 
are  going  to  have  for  breakfast.  He  will  send  a 
telegram  to  my  father  just  now,  and  my  father 
will  answer  in  a  passion,  exhorting  them  to  more 
zeal.  He  is  splendidly  energetic,  my  father. 


120  FfiO 

By  and  by,  he  will  protest  to  all  the  world  that 
he  wished  you  to  be  my  wife.  That  will  be 
when  we  have  played  all  the  cards,  and  I  hold 
the  last  of  them.  As  I  said,  it's  an  amusing 
game  if  you  play  it  properly." 

He  turned  and  entered  the  cafe.  To  Feo,  the 
scene  was  as  one  in  some  drama — an  exciting 
scene  which  would  be  changed  presently  to  give 
place  to  other  pictures  and  new  faces — the  faces 
of  her  father  and  of  Lamberg,  and  even  of  the 
men  she  had  seen  in  the  old  house  in  the  Avenue 
Marceau.  She  was  conscious  of  nothing  but  the 
present.  The  morrow,  the  future,  the  farewell 
which  must  be  spoken  by  and  by,  were  in  no  way 
to  be  realised.  She  sat  at  the  little  table,  and 
ate  of  the  dishes,  and  heard  the  buzz  of  talk  as 
one  who  acts  and  listens  in  the  waking  moments 
of  a  dream.  But  Jerome  chattered  unceasingly. 
His  fine  figure,  his  flaxen  hair,  his  suave  man- 
ners, coloured  with  the  fine  courtesy  of  the  Aus- 
trian, could  not  escape  remark.  His  very  pres- 
ence seemed  to  typify  another  atmosphere — the 
atmosphere  of  court  and  palace,  and  the  stately 
homes  of  Europe. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  the  story  which  was  to  be- 
gin at  the  beginning  ?  That  would  be  a  long 
time  ago,  Feo.  Do  you  remember  the  day  when 
I  met  you  in  Richter's  house  ?  I  went  home  that 
night  and  told  my  father  that  I  was  going  to 


THE  COUNTER-MARCH  121 

marry  you.  He  was  very  much  amused,  and 
talked  of  nothing  else  for  three  days.  On  the 
morning  of  the  fourth  day,  he  discovered  that  I 
was  in  earnest.  Nobody  saw  him  for  a  week 
after  that.  We  used  to  play  a  little  tragedy 
every  night,  all  to  ourselves.  He  would  have 
made  a  splendid  actor — my  father.  Do  not 
think  that  I  am  not  very  fond  of  him.  If  one 
is  to  have  one's  own  way  in  life,  something  is  to 
be  granted  to  the  opposition — a  little  temper, 
some  fine  moral  maxims,  and  the  old  platitudes 
about  family  and  state,  and  all  that  nonsense. 
When  I  told  him  that  I  had  found  a  wife,  he 
struck  an  attitude,  and  reminded  me  that  I  was 
a  Hapsburg.  I  reminded  him,  in  turn,  that  our 
family  had  made  a  large  number  of  unfortunate 
marriages,  and  that  a  little  respectability  would 
really  be  very  refreshing.  He  answered  that  I 
was  no  son  of  his.  I  confessed  surprise — it  was 
very  natural.  When  he  contrived  to  have  me 
sent  to  Croatia,  I  went  readily.  That  allowed 
something  to  him.  The  same  law  applies  to  this 
business  in  Paris.  He  thinks  that  he  has  locked 
you  up  in  the  Avenue  Marceau,  and  he  is  plum- 
ing himself  on  his  cleverness.  He  will  send  an 
announcement  directly  to  the  Austrian  papers, 
betrothing  me  to  my  cousin,  Princess  Marie.  I 
have  told  her  already  that  I  have  not  the  slight- 
est intention  of  marrying  her,  so  there  is  no  risk 


122 

of  complications.  "When  my  father  has  done 
other  things — to  satisfy  his  love  of  authority — 
he  will  come  to  me  repentant.  He  will  declare 
that  I  have  the  most  charming  wife  in  the  world, 
and  will  bless  us  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  He  has 
done  that  to  other  people  often." 

Feo  smiled  in  spite  of  herself.  This  flippant 
talk  concerned  that  "  might  be  "  which  had  been 
the  dream  of  such  long  months.  Minute  by 
minute  she  sought  to  convince  herself  that  his 
road  lay  to  Vienna,  hers  to  London ;  but  the  ar- 
guments were  not  to  be  marshalled. 

"  Captain  Lamberg  came  to  our  house  nearly 
a  month  ago.  I  did  not  know  why  he  came,  or 
I  could  not  have  accompanied  him  to  Paris. 
You  understand  that,  Jerome  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do.  Your  place  was  in  London 
as  long  as  I  was  there.  You  owed  that  to  your 
promise." 

She  laughed  at  his  conception  of  it. 

"  Perhaps,  if  I  had  remembered  it.  I  was  think- 
ing of  something  else.  There  are  certain  things 
a  woman  cannot  do  if  she  has  any  self-respect." 

He  crossed  his  arms  upon  the  table  and  looked 
at  her  masterfully. 

"Feo,  you  are  talking  nonsense.  When  a 
woman  has  promised  to  be  a  man's  wife,  there  is 
no  longer  any  question  of  self-respect  to  be  con- 
sidered. I  would  have  come  to  you  sooner  or 


THE  COUNTEK-MAKCH  123 

later,  if  I  had  walked  to  Calais  and  arrived  in 
London  with  no  soles  to  my  boots.  Eighteen 
months  ago,  in  Vienna,  you  had  the  right  to 
say  to  me :  *  I  will '  or  *  I  will  not.'  "When  you 
said  '  I  will,'  you  ended  the  matter.  I  told  you 
that  nothing  short  of  my  own  death  would  keep 
me  from  your  side.  You,  it  seems,  are  fright- 
ened already  because  a  few  ridiculous  people  try 
to  concern  themselves  with  our  affairs.  We  are 
both  of  age ;  we  thrashed  out  all  the  arguments 
last  year ;  why  should  we  begin  again,  especially 
at  this  moment  when  a  gentleman  is  waiting 
outside  to  know  what  we  are  having  for  break- 
fast ?  Is  it  not  quite  enough  to  remember  that 
I  must  get  you  out  of  Paris  to-night,  and  that, 
if  I  do  not,  several  very  awkward  things  may 
happen?  Be  sensible,  my  dear  girl;  I  can't 
think  of  everything  at  once.  Let  that  clever 
little  head  of  yours  help  me." 

There  was  a  convincing  note  in  his  voice  which 
she  could  not  resist.  It  had  ever  been  so.  She 
had  not  wished,  even  in  Vienna,  to  put  this  bur- 
den of  her  promise  upon  him ;  but  his  will  had 
won  the  victory.  She  knew  that  he  loved  her 
with  a  strong  man's  love,  and  against  that  her 
heart  was  impotent. 

"  AYhat  can  I  advise  you  to  do  ?  "  she  protested. 
"  My  father  must  have  told  his  story  already  at 
your  Embassy.  I  cannot  leave  Paris  with  you 


124  FfiO 

alone.  You  would  not  ask  me  to  do  that.  And 
how  is  a  woman  to  escape  when  the  police  will 
not  let  her  ?  " 

He  lit  a  cigarette  and  stirred  his  coffee. 

"  If  I  had  wished  you  to  leave  Paris  with  me, 
and  to  compromise  your  name  by  doing  any- 
thing so  foolish,  I  should  not  be  in  Durand's  at 
this  moment.  You  need  not  have  mentioned  it, 
for  it  was  quite  out  of  the  question.  As  for  my 
Embassy,  or  the  police,  I  do  not  care  a  straw 
for  either  of  them.  My  father  knows  me  by 
this  time — or  he  should  know  me.  The  fortress 
treatment  does  not  suit  my  constitution.  I  have 
told  him  so.  On  the  day  when  he  takes  any 
serious  step  against  me  I  will  answer  him  in  the 
only  way  a  man  of  honour  can  answer — the 
sacrifice  of  his  life.  I  threatened  him  with  that 
in  Vienna  a  year  ago.  He  knows  that  I  mean 
what  I  say,  and  so  his  weapons  are  turned,  not 
against  me,  but  against  you.  Otto  Lamberg 
would  do  any  dirty  work  for  a  bank-note.  You 
have  had  the  best  of  the  first  encounter ;  but  he 
won't  let  the  matter  rest  there.  Yesterday  he 
was  comparatively  harmless ;  to-day  he  will  be 
dangerous.  That  is  why  we  are  going  to  leave 
Paris  without  any  loss  of  time.  I  don't  believe 
they'd  go  so  far  as  to  arrest  you,  or  any  of  that 
nonsense ;  but  it's  better  to  have  the  danger  at 
your  back,  and  that's  where  I  shall  leave  it." 


THE  COUNTER-MARCH  125 

She  laughed,  with  just  a  suggestion  of  irony. 

"How  easy  it  is  to  talk  of  things!"  she  said. 
"  We  have  only  to  say  '  up,'  and  we  fly  like  the 
pigs.  To-night  I  shall  catch  the  train  to  Lon- 
don ;  you  will  go  back  to  Vienna.  In  a  week's 
time  I  shall  be  reading  of  your  betrothal  to  your 
cousin." 

Her  face  clouded  at  the  thought.  All  the  glit- 
ter about  her,  the  shimmering  gowns,  the  nod- 
ding plumes,  the  bright  figures  were  obscured  as 
by  a  veil  cast  suddenly  upon  her  face.  But  Je- 
rome continued  to  talk  unemotionally,  as  though 
of  the  most  trivial  affairs. 

"  Feo,"  he  said,  "  be  sensible.  You  know  per- 
fectly well  that  you  will  not  do  anything  so  silly. 
The  train  which  you  will  catch  is  the  afternoon 
train  to  Pontarlier.  I  shall  drive  you  to  the 
Gare  de  Lyon  myself.  When  you  are  in  the 
carriage  and  the  train  has  started  I  return  to 
my  hotel  to  read  my  father's  angry  telegram. 
To-morrow  I  shall  take  the  morning  express  and 
be  with  you  before  dinner.  In  three  days  we 
shall  be  married.  Don't  contradict  me.  for  I 
have  made  up  my  mind.  It's  a  habit  of  mine 
not  to  change  it." 

He  beckoned  a  waiter  and  paid  the  bill.  She 
made  a  pretence  of  arranging  her  hat ;  but  her 
fingers  trembled.  The  mystery,  the  pleasure, 
the  uncertaintv  of  it  all  thrilled  her  with  an 


126 

ecstasy  of  hope.  She  had  no  courage  either  to 
argue  with  him  or  to  contradict  him. 

"  Promises,  promises,  my  dear  Jerome — when 
you  have  said  *  good-bye '  to  me " 

He  arose  abruptly. 

"There  is  a  gentleman  waiting  for  us  on  the 
steps  of  the  Madeleine,"  he  exclaimed,  without 
waiting  to  hear  her.  "  I  am  going  to  trespass 
upon  the  courtesy  of  Monsieur  le  Proprietaire 
and  to  leave  his  house  by  the  back  door.  There 
is  so  much  to  see  in  the  Madeleine,  Feo.  It 
would  be  a  pity  to  disturb  the  man." 

She  smiled  in  spite  of  her  excitement.  A 
waiter  conducted  them  through  a  maze  of  pas- 
sages, through  kitchens  and  sculleries,  until  they 
emerged  at  last  in  the  Rue  Duphot.  A  closed 
carriage  was  waiting  there.  He  opened  the  door 
quietly  and  waited  for  her  to  enter. 

"  We  have  not  too  much  time,"  he  said,  "  for 
the  old  lady  detests  waiting." 

"The  old  lady?" 

"  Certainly,  my  friend  the  Comtesse  de  Berge. 
You  are  going  to  her  house,  Feo." 


A  \VAITKK  CONDUCTED  T11K.M  TIIROUC.H   KITCHENS   AND    SCULLERIES. 


CHAPTEK   XV 

A   STRANGE   FAREWELL 

SHE  heard  him  without  astonishment.  Noth- 
ing could  astonish  her  snow.  The  cab  rolled 
slowly  through  those  very  streets  she  had  trodden 
so  wearily  last  night.  A  great  desire  to  sleep 
and  awake  when  all  this  doubt  and  perplexity 
had  passed  away  warred  upon  her  curiosity.  A 
new  world  was  opening  to  her.  She  had  buried 
the  old  life  when  she  fled  from  the  Avenue 
Marceau,  and  confessed  that  she  was  alone  in  the 
world.  The  man,  in  his  turn,  sat  holding  her 
hand  very  tightly.  It  was  something  to  know 
that  he  had  found  her  at  last. 

"  We  have  not  too  much  time,"  he  repeated, 
"  for  the  Countess  makes  a  point  of  being  at  the 
station  an  hour  before  the  train  starts.  She  is 
the  oddest  woman  in  all  Paris,  or  in  all  France 
for  that  matter.  If  you  told  her  that  a  marriage 
was  to  be  made  or  marred,  she  would  cross 
Europe  to  have  a  hand  in  the  work.  Her  chateau 
at  Pontarlier  is  the  very  place  for  us.  I  don't 
suppose  there  will  be  any  one  at  the  railway  sta- 
tion ;  and  when  you  have  left  Paris  and  they 

127 


128  FfiO 

find  that  I  stay  behind,  we  shall  amuse  them.  I 
planned  it  all  out  yesterday.  That's  why  you 
didn't  hear  of  me  before.  I  made  up  my  mind 
not  to  meet  Lamberg  on  his  own  ground.  That 
sort  of  man  is  accustomed  to  the  dark.  He  will 
begin  to  look  for  us  when  the  lamps  are  lighted. 
A  little  honesty  is  the  last  thing  he  expects.  I 
should  like  to  see  his  face  if  any  one  told  him 
that  we  were  driving  through  Paris  in  broad 
daylight.  Rogues  never  understand  why  a  man 
throws  down  his  cards — and  the  old  lady  is  our 
best  card.  I  wonder  how  you'll  like  her,  Feo  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer  the  question. 

"  Where  does  your  friend  live  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  At  the  Chateau  de  Joux  above  Pontarlier.  It 
is  one  of  the  finest  seats  in  France.  You  will 
meet  all  sorts  of  people  there — chiefly  good,  but 
some  indifferent.  The  last  are  the  people  the 
old  lady  desires  to  marry." 

"  A  compliment  to  me  ! " 

"Certainly — a  compliment.  You  are  the  ex- 
ception to  her  rule.  If  she  likes  you — and  she 
cannot  help  that — she  will  protect  you  against 
the  law  of  three  kingdoms.  She  is  sixty-two 
years  of  age.  If  any  one  proposed  to  her  to- 
morrow, and  offered  to  run  away  with  her  in  a 
post-chaise,  she  would  go.  A  secret  marriage  is 
a  T)onne  boucJie  to  her,  and  we  are  her  benefac- 
tors. She  will  be  ten  years  younger  to-morrow." 


A  STRANGE  FAREWELL  129 

Feo  sighed.     There  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  say,"  she  exclaimed. 
"  I  have  no  right  to  be  here  at  all.  How  can  I 
go  to  a  stranger's  house  ?  " 

"  You  can  go  by  the  three  o'clock  train,  Feo." 

"  And  be  the  scorn  of  every  one  ?  " 

"  The  scorn.  What  an  idea !  Here  is  one  of 
my  friends  who  sends  you  an  invitation  to  stay 
at  her  house.  Are  you  ashamed  of  my  friend- 
ship ?  " 

"  But  I  have  no  clothes,  no  money.  I  haven't 
a  single  dress ;  I  can't  go,  Jerome." 

He  saw  that  her  distress  was  very  real,  and  he 
put  his  arm  about  her  and  drew  her  head  down 
upon  his  shoulder. 

"Little  Feo,"  he  said,  "  there  are  many  people 
trying  to  separate  us.  You  are  now  among  the 
number.  But  they  will  all  fail,  and  you  will  fail 
with  them.  Don't  you  understand  why  ?  " 

She  understood. 

"  You  love  me,"  she  said. 

"The  first  and  last  reason.  There  is  nothing 
else  in  my  life  but  your  love.  Remember  that 
always,  and  everything  will  be  easy." 

She  raised  a  smiling  face  to  his. 

"  I  will  remember  it  always." 

He  kissed  her  lips,  and  then  forgetting  his  sen- 
timent, began  to  be  practical  again. 

"It's   awkward    about   the   dresses,   but    the 


130 

Countess  understands,  and  she  insists  upon  buy- 
ing you  a  wardrobe  herself.  I  believe  she  would 
be  offended  if  you  appeared  at  the  station  with  a 
trunk.  She  thinks  that  she  is  protecting  us  from 
all  sor.ts  of  dangerous  people,  and  a  heroine  with- 
out a  dress-basket  is  something  new  for  her. 
Don't  mind  her  fussiness.  She  is  always  scold- 
ing somebody,  but  no  one  ever  listens.  I  shall 
hope  to  get  to  Pontarlier  to-morrow,  and  when 
I  come  we  can  arrange  everything." 

"I  am  sorry  that  you  must  remain  another 
night  in  Paris." 

"  Oh,  but  it  can't  be  helped  !  I  want  them  to 
think  that  you  have  gone  back  to  London.  If 
that  fellow  at  the  Madeleine  didn't  anticipate  us, 
we  have  twenty-four  hours'  start  of  them  at  any 
rate.  That  will  enable  me  to  leave  Paris  with- 
out suspicion.  Mr.  Drummond,  your  English 
friend,  has  promised  to  do  everything  he  can. 
The  police  will  report  your  return  to  his  hotel. 
That  is  so  much  dust  thrown  in  their  eyes,  and 
all  that  we  need  is  time.  We  could  be  married 
in  three  days,  Feo." 

She  sighed. 

"  In  three  days  my  father  could  reach  Pont- 
arlier." 

"  Undoubtedly,  but  it  would  take  him  more 
than  three  days  to  find  his  way  into  the  Chateau 
de  Joux.  Come,  there  is  no  need  to  look  on  the 


A  STRANGE  FAREWELL  131 

darker  side.  Here's  the  Gare.  I  don't  suppose 
we  shall  find  a  porter  to  carry  my  stick,  for  the 
Countess  will  be  on  the  platform.  She  is  always 
the  centre  of  a  crowd.  A  regiment  of  soldiers 
could  not  get  her  into  the  train  until  she  had 
protested  that  the  country  is  lost — together  with 
her  black  basket  and  her  jewel-case.  Ah,  I 
thought  so." 

He  paid  the  cabman  and  passed  quickly  to  the 
Bureau.  A  group  of  heterogeneous  idlers — work- 
men, boys,  officials — was  here  formed  about  a 
little  old  lady,  whose  high-pitched  voice  rang 
through  the  station  in  a  discordant  note  of  anger 
and  defiance.  Short,  with  flowing  skirts  of  black 
silk,  and  hair  in  abundance,  dressed  high  upon 
her  forehead  in  the  fashion  of  the  last  century ; 
painted,  powdered,  rouged — Feo  said  that  this 
must  be  the  Countess  of  Berge.  A  moment  later 
the  old  lady  was  kissing  her  upon  both  cheeks. 

"  My  poor,  persecuted  child,  you  have  come, 
then.  And  you,  Prince.  Ah  !  you  remember  a 
lonely  old  woman  when  you  think  that  you  can 
make  use  of  her.  But  I  am  glad  to  see  you. 
They  are  all  thieves  and  robbers  here.  They 
have  stolen  my  valise — a  brown  valise  with  black 
straps.  You  will  find  it  for  me,  my  dear  ?  Ah, 
the  pity  of  being  a  lonely  old  woman." 

She  turned  again  to  exhort  the  porters  to  new 
zeal ;  and  when  her  bag  had  been  found,  and  she 


132  FfiO 

had  taken  out  her  purse  three  times  to  see  that 
she  had  the  tickets,  and  a  footman  had  been  sent 
back  to  her  carriage  to  make  sure  that  nothing 
was  left  behind,  the  procession  set  out  towards 
the  coupe  reserved  for  her. 

"  So,  my  dear,  those  dreadful  men  have  let  you 
out  of  prison,  then.  Not  a  word,  not  a  word ; 
we  should  be  overheard  here.  Count  upon  my 
discretion.  I  am  an  old  woman,  and  have  learned 
how  to  be  discreet.  Where  is  Aphrodite  ?  the 
good  God  help  me,  where  is  Aphrodite  ?  " 

She  was  about  to  enter  the  carriage  when  she 
made  the  discovery  that  her  dog  was  not  under 
her  arm  as  usual.  Instantly  the  porters  were  set 
running  again.  An  inspector  mopped  his  brow 
and  protested  before  heaven  that  it  was  not  his 
fault.  Maids  wept  under  the  fierce  torrent  of 
anger  outpoured.  Footmen  wrangled  with  foot- 
men ;  the  old  lady  herself  stood  at  the  door  of 
the  coupe  and  solemnly  called  the  people  to  wit- 
ness that,  though  the  Republic  should  fall,  she 
would  not  leave  the  Gare  de  Lyon  until  Aphro- 
dite was  found.  The  crisis  was  at  its  height 
when  a  whine  from  the  interior  of  the  coupe  ter- 
minated the  scene.  The  dog  was  in  the  carriage 
after  all,  then. 

A  great  climbing,  assistance  from  the  footmen, 
the  maids  tugging  and  hauling,  the  small  boys 
mocking,  the  inspector  anxious — and  madamc 


A  STRANGE  FAREWELL  133 

was  hoisted  to  her  seat.  Again  she  counted  the 
bundles,  again  she  looked  at  her  tickets.  All 
was  well.  She  would  permit  the  train  to  start. 

"  Until  to-morrow,  then.  Oh,  I  shall  take  care 
of  her,  don't  be  afraid  !  Let  them  come  to  me  if 
they  have  anything  to  say.  You  are  sure  that 
my  luggage  is  in  the  van,  Prince  ?  " 

Jerome  smiled. 

"  My  dear  Countess,  there  are  two  of  your 
footmen  counting  it  at  this  moment." 

"  Ah,  but  one  cannot  trust  the  servants.  I  am 
robbed  every  day — I  have  been  robbed  for  twenty 
years,  and  still  I  suffer  it.  You  will  not  fail  us 
to-morrow,  Prince?" 

"  Of  course  I  shall  not  fail  you.  Am  I  not 
giving  you  a  hostage  ?  " 

For  the  first  time  madame  smiled. 

"  I  believe  that  you  are  in  love  with  her,"  she 
said.  "  Foolish  children,  as  if  love  ever  did  any- 
thing for  any  one." 

Jerome  bent  and  kissed  her  hand. 

"  Adorable  creature,"  he  said,  "  I  will  not  argue 
with  you." 

Madame  nodded  her  head  sagaciously  and 
looked  at  Feo. 

"She  is  very  pretty,  the  little  one,"  she  ex- 
claimed. "  I  shall  find  a  husband  for  her." 

She  was  about  to  assure  them  that  if  the  brown 
valise  were  in  the  van,  which  she  doubted,  it 


would  certainly  be  lost  at  Dijon,  when  the  guard 
blew  his  tin  trumpet,  and  the  heavy  train  moved 
slowly  out  of  the  Gare.  Feo  saw  Jerome  for  an 
instant  as  he  stood,  erect  and  smiling,  upon  the 
last  plank  of  the  platform.  It  was  a  strange  fare- 
well, she  thought.  His  final  word  had  been  a 
promise  that  he  would  come  to  her  to-morrow. 
She  asked  herself  if  destiny  willed  such  a  meet- 
ing, or  if  she  had  indeed  heard  his  voice  and 
touched  his  hand  for  the  last  time  ?  Neverthe- 
less, a  sense  of  rest  came  to  her  as  she  leaned 
back  against  the  soft  cushions  of  that  luxurious 
carriage.  She  almost  dared  to  hope  that  her 
journey  would  carry  her  to  some  place  where  the 
past  might  be  forgotten  and  the  future  be  her 
recompense.  The  moral  of  her  act  was  not  to  be 
debated.  Jerome  loved  her,  and  in  his  love  her 
vindication  lay. 


CHAPTER  XYI 

AT  THE   CHATEAU   DE  JOUX 

FEO  awoke  very  early  on  the  morning  of  the 
following  day.  She  did  not  at  first  remember 
where  she  was ;  and  the  unfamiliar  room,  so 
large,  so  splendid,  and  so  strange,  by  no  means 
helped  her  memory.  She  had  never  seen  a  bed 
like  the  bed  in  which  she  lay.  Its  fantastic 
carvings,  its  hangings  of  tapestry  wherefrom 
hideous  faces  leered  at  her,  its  splendid  lace  and 
linen,  reminded  her  of  the  great  beds  she  had 
laughed  at  in  the  Exhibitions  in  London.  Every- 
where about  her  were  emblems  of  wealth  and  of 
the  rarest  taste.  A  Sevres  clock  with  a  jewelled 
pendulum  stood  upon  a  mantelshelf  of  the  whitest 
marble,  in  turn  supported  by  Caryatides.  The 
candlesticks  were  alabaster  figures  bearing  quaint 
torches.  "Wardrobes,  which  would  have  held  the 
clothes  of  a  household,  stood  cheek  by  jowl  with 
writing-tables  of  Buhl  work  and  cabinets  beyond 
price.  Feo  remembered  that  she  had  no  clothes, 
and  the  wardrobes  amused  her.  She  was  thor- 
oughly awake  now,  and  she  began  to  recall  the 
events  of  yesterday.  The  journey  from  Paris, 
the  nervous,  fidgety,  chattering  old  lady  who  had 

135 


136 

been  her  chaperone,  the  descent  at  Pontarlier, 
the  drive  through  the  hills  to  the  chateau  in  the 
Jura  mountains,  the  solemn  function  of  dinner, 
the  old  lady's  command  that  she  should  go  to 
bed,  the  room  in  which  she  lay,  and,  after  that, 
oblivion.  A  strange  day,  she  thought.  Yet 
what  of  the  day  to  come  ? 

She  did  not  know  what  time  it  was,  for  her 
watch  had  stopped  at  four  o'clock  a  year  ago, 
and  she  had  never  wound  it  since.  No  sounds 
came  to  her  from  the  great  house;  but  in  the 
fields  without  she  heard  the  harvesters  singing. 
The  sunlight,  which  shone  generously  in  that 
room,  seemed  to  reproach  her  for  her  tardiness. 
When  she  drew  aside  a  curtain  and  looked  out 
from  one  of  the  windows  which  gave  upon  the 
valley,  she  thought  that  she  had  never  seen  so 
fair  a  country.  Far  below  was  the  road  to  that 
Paris  she  had  left.  A  little  river  flashed  back 
the  sun's  rays  as  from  a  jewelled  mirror.  The 
town  of  Pontarlier  was  to  be  discerned  as  a  loom 
of  smoke  upon  the  horizon.  Elsewhere  the  green 
mountains  towered  up  to  be  sentinels  of  the 
house.  It  were  as  though  she  stood  upon  the 
edge  of  a  precipice  and  could  overlook  some 
splendid  scene  of  field  and  forest,  spread  out  be- 
yond the  capacity  of  her  wondering  eyes.  Upon 
the  verandah,  which  girdled  the  first  floor  of  the 
chateau,  flowers  blossoming  gave  perfume  to  the 


AT  THE  CHATEAU  DE  JOUX      137 

sweet  air  of  the  morning.  She  could  espy  the 
gardeners  working  upon  the  Italian  terraces  be- 
low. A  glitter  of  scarlet  and  gold  and  white 
bore  testimony  to  the  work  they  did.  But  it  was 
the  distant  view,  the  picture  of  la  belle  France, 
so  green,  so  fair,  so  full  of  that  suggestion  of 
peace  passing  understanding,  which  appealed 
most  surely  to  her  imagination.  Here  truly  was 
there  a  haven  for  her — here,  indeed,  could  she 
find  a  home  when  Jerome  came. 

An  excitement,  born  of  her  pleasure,  com- 
pelled her  to  dress  swiftly.  She  remembered, 
while  she  dressed,  that  Jerome  was  to  leave 
Paris  that  afternoon,  and  to  reach  the  chateau  in 
time  for  dinner.  His  assurance  that,  whatever 
might  be  contrived  against  her,  he,  at  least, 
would  remain  a  free  agent,  helped  her  to  confi- 
dence. She  was  among  strangers,  but  her  soli- 
tude would  be  brief.  The  eccentric  old  lady, 
who  was  the  mistress  of  the  chateau,  had  won 
her  confidence  already.  Feo  read  the  truer 
human  qualities  beneath  that  mask  of  nervous 
complaint  and  unceasing  peevishness.  She  be- 
lieved that  she  had  found  a  friend.  No  longer 
did  she  hear  a  voice  telling  her  that  she  was 
alone  in  the  world.  Here,  at  least,  was  one  wise 
head,  which  could  lead  her  to  the  path  she  rightly 
must  follow.  That  very  day  the  Countess  should 
know  her  story  from  the  first  line  to  the  last. 


138  FfiO 

This  promise  of  confession  was  very  pleasing  to 
her.  She  told  herself  that  she  would  not  delay 
even  an  hour,  lest  Jerome  returned  to  prevail 
above  her  resolution.  And  she  had  just  taken 
this  resolve  when  the  door  of  her  bedroom  swung 
back  violently,  and  a  young  girl,  prettily  dressed 
in  white  and  carrying  a  white  sun-bonnet  in  her 
hands,  came  headlong  into  the  apartment.  She 
was  breathless,  and  her  cheeks  were  flushed. 
But  she  put  her  arms  about  Feo's  neck,  and 
kissed  her  upon  both  cheeks. 
,  "Feo,  Feo,"  she  cried,  "I  am  Yictorine — you 
will  let  me  love  you,  Feo  ?  " 

Feo,  unaccustomed  to  such  ardour,  yet  won  by 
the  girl's  sincerity,  answered  laughingly  — 
,  "  And  who  is  Victorine  that  I  should  let  her 
love  me  ?  " 

The  new  comer  stared  in  amazement. 

ft  She  has  not  told  you,  then !  Ah,  but  she  is 
always  selfish.  If  I  were  a  dog — but  I  am  only 
Victorine." 

"  You  are  a  relative  of  hers,  dear  ?  " 

"  I  am  her  niece ;  I  live  here  always  and  never 
go  to  Paris.  People  ask  me,  but  my  aunt  says, 
'  No.'  That  is  for  by  and  by  when  all  the  men 
have  grey  hair,  and  I  am  old,  so  old  that  I  shall 
carry  a  pug  dog  under  my  arm.  Some  day  all 
this  will  be  mine,  all  that  you  can  see — the 
grounds,  the  park,  the  housey  MH!  the:  statue  with 


AT  THE  CHATEAU  DE  JOTJX      139 

the  broken  nose  in  the  garden  down  there. 
What  is  the  good  of  it  all  when  they  leave  you 
alone,  and  all  the  men  you  like  are  in  Paris? 
But  it  will  be  different  now  that  you  are  here. 
You  will  tell  me  about  everything,  Feo — you  will 
be  my  friend." 

She  sat  upon  the  bed,  swinging  her  old  bonnet, 
and  looking  the  very  type  of  radiant  health  and 
happiness.  Feo  said  that  she  would  be  not 
twenty.  Her  own  life  had  shown  to  her  so  few 
of  those  things  which  go  to  make  a  young  girl's 
pleasure  that  she  welcomed  this  impulsive  friend- 
ship. The  sweet,  fresh  voice  was  a  pleasing  note 
of  the  morning. 

"  You  must  tell  me  everything,  show  me  every- 
thing, Victorine,"  she  said ;  "  we  shall  have  time 
to-day,  for  Jerome  is  not  coming  until  seven 
o'clock.  And,  of  course,  I  am  such  a  stranger." 

Victorine  sprang  up  and  linked  her  arm  about 
the  other's  waist. 

"  Let  us  have  breakfast  in  the  garden,"  she  ex- 
claimed earnestly.  "  Aunt  thinks  that  she  is  ill 
and  has  sent  for  the  doctor.  I  will  tell  him  to 
keep  her  in  bed  to-day,  and  then  we  shall  not 
be  bothered.  It  is  splendid  in  the  garden  ;  if  it 
were  not  for  that,  I  should  run  away  with  the 
little  boy  who  serves  the  altar.  You  don't  know 
what  it  is  to  be  a  prisoner,  when  all  the  people 
you  like  are  in  Paris." 


140  FfiO 

"  There  are  so  many  of  them,  then  ?  " 

Victorine  sighed. 

"  There  is  Paul — ah,  if  you  knew  Paul !  He 
is  in  the  Hussars — he  was  here  a  year  ago,  and  I 
have  his  picture.  We  went  for  such  walks.  Aunt 
used  to  be  shocked  every  day.  She  threatened  to 
send  me  to  the  convent.  Paul  said  that  he  knew 
a  good  convent  in  Paris,  but  ma  tante  would  not 
hear  of  it.  That  is  the  worst  of  being  old.  You 
never  like  other  people  to  do  the  things  you  used 
to  do.  If  I  were  to  run  away  with  some  one  I 
hate,  she  would  say  I  was  her  own  child.  But 
just  because  it  is  Paul " 

She  pouted  prettily,  and  led  Feo  down  the 
great  staircase  with  the  gilded  balustrade,  out 
through  houses  of  glass  wherein  countless  blos- 
soms scented  the  air,  to  the  old  Italian  garden 
and  the  umbrageous  walks  and  bowers  there.  It 
was  all  very  still  and  silent,  and  full  of  the  sug- 
gestion of  a  world  apart — the  world  of  old  France, 
and  of  a  generation,  noble  in  a  tradition  of  no- 
bility, which  long  since  had  passed  away.  To 
Feo,  it  was  as  some  revelation  of  an  unknown 
life.  Dimly,  through  the  years,  she  had  dreamed 
of  such  a  home  as  this,  of  a  high  place  which 
should  be  hers  by  right  of  her  gifts  and  her 
attainment.  The  reality  awed  her.  She  dared 
not  remember  that,  if  she  were  Jerome's  wife, 
the  years  that  remained  to  her  must  be  passed  in 


AT  THE  CHATEAU  DE  JOUX      141 

such  an  atmosphere  as  this.  She  must  school 
herself  to  the  habits,  the  manner,  the  fine  tra- 
dition which  in  itself  gave  nobility  to  the  Chateau 
de  Joux. 

They  breakfasted  in  an  arbour  overlooking  the 
valley.  Two  footmen  waited  upon  them  with  a 
method  lacking  ostentation  yet  all-sufficient. 
Masses  of  wild  roses  clung  about  the  arbour ;  the 
parterres  around  were  a  blaze  of  warm  colour  and 
of  rich  blossoms.  Down  upon  the  pastures,  the 
harvesters  drove  lazy  horses  to  their  leisured 
labours.  Distant  bells  spoke  of  the  droning  life, 
and  of  the  dreamy  hamlets.  The  old  chateau 
itself  appeared  to  sleep  in  the  fostering  sun- 
shine. Feo  could  not  believe  that  yesterday 
she  was  in  Paris,  harassed,  alone,  desperate. 
The  stream  of  her  perplexity  had  turned,  and 
seemed  to  be  carrying  her  out  to  some  placid  sea 
of  happiness  and  content.  If  Jerome  kept  his 
promise ! 

"  They  told  you  that  I  was  coming,  Yictorine  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  My  aunt  sent  a  telegram  to  Felix,  the  steward. 
She  said  that  I  was  not  to  see  it.  He  showed  it 
to  me  when  I  wouldn't  believe  him.  When  you 
came  last  night,  ma  tante  said  that  it  was  a 
matter  of  life  and  death.  She  wanted  to  guard 
all  the  gates,  so  that  no  one  should  come  in.  I 
have  never  seen  her  so  pleased.  She  tries  to 


142 

believe  that  they  \vill  send  you  to  some  dreadful 
place — she  said  the  Bastille,  until  I  told  her  that 
it  was  pulled  down.  And  I  was  so  sorry,  Feo. 
If  it  had  been  my  Paul ! " 

"  You  are  engaged  to  him,  then,  Yictorine  ?  " 

Victorine  flushed. 

"  He  said  that  I  was  to  let  him  know  when  I 
was  in  Paris.  He  promised  to  send  me  a  book 
for  the  New  Year ;  but  I  believe  aunt  kept  it. 
She  is  a  jealous  old  thing,  and  I  know  she  liked 
Paul.  I  don't  want  her  to  die,  but  she  never  lets 
me  go  to  Paris.  You  are  lucky,  because  she  likes 
Jerome.  She  has  made  up  her  mind  that  you 
shall  marry  him ;  and  when  she  says  that,  it's  as 
good  as  done.  If  I  pretended  to  hate  Paul,  she 
would  be  different.  But  I  can't  do  that — one 
can't  pretend  when  one  is  very  fond  of  any  one. 
"Won't  you  tell  me  your  story  ?  It's  different 
for  you.  You  have  run  away  from  somewhere, 
and  ma  twite  says  she  loves  you.  How  happy 
you  must  be,  Feo  !  " 

Feo  smiled.  "You  are  all  so  kind  to  me — I 
must  be  happy." 

"  And  won't  you  tell  me  your  story  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  story.  I  like  some  one  very 
much,  and  other  people  say  that  I  must  not  like 
him.  They  tried  to  keep  us  apart  by  shutting 
me  up  in  an  old  house  in  Paris.  I  got  out  of  the 
window,  and  here  I  am." 


AT  THE  CHATEAU  DE  JOUX      143 

Yictorine  stared  with  her  pretty  eyes  very 
wide  open. 

"Was  he  waiting  for  you  when  you  opened 
the  window  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly,  dear." 

"  You  drove  off  in  a  carriage  and  pair?" 

"  No,  I  ran  away ;  just  like  any  one  going  out 
for  a  walk." 

Yictorine  sighed. 

"  And  he  is  coming  here  to-night.  Aunt  says 
you  are  to  be  married  on  Monday.  If  it  were 
my  Paul " 

"  "Who  was  going  to  marry  me  ?  " 

Victorine  jumped  up  impulsively. 

"  I  should  hate  you,"  she  said.  "  Let  us  go  and 
tell  aunt  that  we  have  had  our  breakfast  in  the 
garden.  That  will  make  her  cross.  And — oh,  I 
forgot !  The  costumier  is  coming  from  Pontar- 
lier.  You  are  to  have  dresses,  hats — everything. 
I  will  show  you  my  pink  dress,  and  you  shall 
have  one  like  it.  They  will  take  us  for  sisters. 
Don't  you  wish  that  we  were  sisters,  Feo  ?  " 

Her  affection  for  her  new  friend  was  pretty 
and  sincere.  They  entered  the  old  house  arm  in 
arm,  and  began  to  walk  through  its  great  gal- 
leries and  Empire  rooms.  In  the  boudoir,  where 
Yictorine  passed  so  many  long  hours,  a  piano 
was  open.  Feo  had  not  sung  a  note  since  she 
left  London ;  but  now,  upon  an  impulse,  she  sat 


144 

down  at  the  piano  and  began  to  sing  the  music 
of  Faust.  Yictorine  listened  entranced.  She 
had  never  heard  such  music  or  such  a  singer. 
The  full  notes  flooded  the  room  with  enchanting 
harmonies,  which  could  play  upon  the  passions 
as  upon  some  answering  instrument.  The  listen- 
ing child  was  transported,  as  in  her  lover's  arms, 
to  new  scenes  and  magic  cities.  "When  Feo 
ceased,  she  was  kneeling  still  at  the  piano,  but 
her  eyes  were  very  wide  open,  and  she  did  not 
speak. 

"  La  belle  Patti — la  belle  Patti — ah,  my  dear, 
who,  then,  have  I  taken  to  my  heart  ?  " 

F6o  turned  quickly.  Madame  la  Comtesse, 
rouged,  powdered,  her  hands  upraised  in  a 
dramatic  attitude,  her  eyes  sparkling  above 
their  circles  of  black,  was  at  her  elbow. 

"  My  child,"  she  said,  "  you  are  a  genius ;  I 
will  certainly  find  a  husband  for  you." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  EMPTY   CARRIAGE 

THE  costumier  came  from  Pontarlier  at  two 
o'clock  with  brocades  and  silks  and  muslins,  and 
solemn  protestations  that  there  was  no  woman 
in  France  with  madam  e's  taste ;  and  the  assur- 
ance, oft  repeated,  that  he  had  never  been  called 
upon  to  fit  so  graceful  a  figure  as  Feo's.  The 
old  lady  heard  him  impatiently,  and  then  began 
to  scold  him.  She  had  just  come  from  Paris, 
and  she  knew !  Some  of  these  things  had  been 
worn  last  year !  What  did  he  mean  by  bringing 
them  to  her  house  ?  Was  it  because  he  thought 
her  an  old  woman  who  had  forgotten  the  mode  ? 
She  would  undeceive  him.  He  should  never 
darken  her  doors  again.  This  was  to  be  an 
event  in  his  life.  He  must  dress  mademoiselle 
as  he  had  never  dressed  any  one  before.  As  for 
those  wretched  things,  he  had  better  take  them 
away  and  burn  them. 

Feo  saw  the  rich  stuffs  outspread,  and  thought 
of  her  little  wardrobe  at  home.  Her  father's 
selfishness  had  kept  her  always  to  the  practice 
of  rigid  economy,  and  to  that  indispensable 

145 


146 

friend  of  the  poor — the  black  gown.  Often  she 
had  spent  no  more  than  twenty  pounds  in  a 
whole  year ;  but  here  were  dresses  which  could 
not  have  been  purchased  for  twice  that  sum. 
The  nature  of  such  generosity  frightened  her. 
She  seemed  to  be  piling  up  obligations  which 
she  might  never  repay. 

"  You  are  so  good ;  but  I  could  not,  I  dare  not 
accept  these  things,"  she  said  timorously,  as  she 
turned  the  brocades  in  her  hand,  and  experienced 
a  woman's  joy  in  the  treasures  outspread  before 
her.  But  the  old  lady  would  not  hear  of  it. 

"  He  is  my  boy,"  she  answered  decisively  ;  "  I 
knew  him  in  Vienna  when  he  was  a  baby. 
Don't  forget  that  you  are  a  Berthier,  child. 
There  is  no  better  name  in  France.  Your  father 
should  be  ashamed  of  himself  if  he  has  not 
taught  you  that.  These  Austrians,  who  are  so 
stupid  in  Paris,  will  find  it  out  by  and  by.  I 
shall  go  and  see  them  when  you  are  married. 
The  Archduke  thinks  he  is  very  clever,  but  he 
is  not  clever  at  all.  He  has  matched  himself 
against  a  poor  old  woman,  and  she  has  won.  I 
shall  tell  him  that  pink  is  your  colour.  It  was 
mine  when  I  was  your  age;  but  we  change, 
dear.  Even  the  pretty  ones  must  grow  old  some 
day." 

She  sat  with  a  length  of  golden  brocade  upon 
her  lap ;  and  it  was  plain  that  the  colour  could 


THE  EMPTY  CAEKIAGE  147 

carry  her  mind  back  to  some  forgotten  day  when 
the  Court  of  the  Empire  had  known  the  name 
of  Julienne,  Comtesse  de  Berge,  and  many  a 
salon  had  sought  her  favour.  The  mood  passed 
swiftly,  however.  Such  impulse  as  intrigue  could 
give  to  her  waning  life  was  hers  now.  She  de- 
lighted in  this  adventure.  She  would  marry  this 
boy  and  girl  in  her  house,  and  go  to  Vienna  to 
tell  the  story. 

"  Jerome  has  a  will  of  his  own,  and  he  wants 
you,  dear.  If  you  do  not  marry  him,  he  will  go 
and  do  something  foolish — ah,  the  dear  fellows 
who  go  and  do  something  foolish!  We  must 
save  him  from  himself — we  must  marry  him.  I 
know  Jerome.  The  Archduke  knows  him,  too. 
There  are  sons  to  whom  you  can  say,  '  This  is 
right  or  this  is  wrong.'  Jerome  is  not  one  of 
them.  They  are  unwise  to  try  and  separate 
you,  little  girl.  They  will  never  do  it — never — 
never." 

The  conviction  seemed  to  please  her.  She  fell 
to  scolding  the  costumier  again ;  and  when  she 
had  tried  every  imaginable  shade,  holding  the 
strips  against  Feo's  pretty  hair,  and  covering  her 
with  fragments  of  silk  and  muslin,  she  took  the 
man  apart  to  give  him  his  orders.  Feo  could 
protest  no  more.  The  mystery,  nay,  the  miracle 
of  it  all  was  beyond  her  understanding.  Yester- 
day she  had  been  homeless  and  alone.  To-day 


148 

she  enjoyed  the  friendship  of  one  of  the  richest 
women  in  France ;  she  was  free  of  that  house ; 
the  subtle  atmosphere  of  nobility  and  tradition 
won  upon  her  ambitions,  and  satisfied  the  dreams 
of  her  childhood. 

"  How  can  I  thank  the  Countess !  how  can  I 
tell  her  that  I  have  no  right  to  all  this  kind- 
ness ! "  she  exclaimed  when  she  was  alone  with 
Victorine  again ;  but  Victorine  was  radiant  with 
delight. 

"  She  likes  you  because  other  people  are  hate- 
ful," she  said.  "  If  you  had  not  been  locked  up 
in  that  dreadful  house  in  Paris,  she  wouldn't  care 
a  bit.  That's  why  I  call  her  a  selfish  old  thing. 
If  some  one  would  lock  up  Paul,  she  would  be 
kind  to  him.  When  you  are  married  you  will 
ask  Paul  to  your  house,  and  I  shall  be  there.  If 
it  were  Monday  for  me,  Feo !  " 

Feo  shook  her  head.  "  I  can't  think  about  it," 
she  said,  "so  much  might  happen.  If  Jerome 
comes  to-night,  I  shall  really  begin  to  hope. 
Isn't  it  a  very  long  day,  Victorine  ?  To  me  it 
seems  a  year." 

"Because  you  are  waiting  for  him.  Let  us 
drive  through  the  woods,  and  I  will  show  you 
where  Paul  and  I  went  picnicing.  He  promised 
to  write  and  tell  me  that  he  would  be  here  again 
in  June — but  aunt  must  have  burned  the  letter. 
Ah,  Feo,  when  one  is  waiting  for  a  letter  1 " 


THE  EMPTY  CARRIAGE  149 

She  sighed  pitifully ;  but  the  depression  was  of 
the  instant,  and  soon  she  was  scampering,  with 
her  dogs,  away  to  the  stables  for  her  ponies. 
Madame  the  Countess  came  out  to  the  steps  of 
the  house  to  see  them  off,  and  to  exhort  Feo  to 
punctuality. 

"He  will  arrive  at  seven  o'clock,  dear,  and 
will  expect  to  find  you  at  the  gate.  My  word — 
how  many  times  I  have  waited  at  the  gate ! 
And  he  will  have  such  stories  for  us.  Do  not  let 
Yictorine  make  your  head  ache  with  her  silly 
chatter.  You  must  look  your  best  to-night — 
your  very  best,  my  poor  child." 

Feo  laughed.  "  Here,  at  least,  you  cannot  call 
me  that,"  she  said. 

The  old  lady  raised  her  finger  warningly. 

"  We  have  enemies,"  she  said  ;  "  we  must  be 
prudent.  When  they  know  that  you  are  in  my 
house,  it  will  not  be  safe  for  you  to  go  out  at  all. 
But  to-day  they  will  not  know,  and  to-night  my 
boy  will  be  here." 

The  words  were  ominous.  Feo  thought  of 
them  often  as  Yictorine  drove  her  through  the 
pine  woods  and  found  many  a  glade  and  many  a 
bower  of  her  romance.  In  spite  of  these  new 
friends,  her  enemies  remained.  She  recalled  the 
gloomy  house  in  the  Avenue  Marceau,  the  days 
of  shame  and  humiliation  there,  her  father's 
threats,  Lamberg's  subtle  intriguing.  Had  she 


150 

escaped  from  such  dangers  for  ever  ?  She  scarce 
dared  to  believe  in  a  fate  so  propitious.  Not  un- 
til Jerome  came  would  she  recall  even  the  cir- 
cumstances of  those  twenty  hours  which  had 
carried  her  from  Paris  to  this  new  home  upon 
the  frontier  of  France. 

It  was  six  o'clock  when  they  returned  to  the 
chateau.  Madame  la  Comtesse  was  dressing 
already  for  dinner.  Yictorine  had  a  hundred 
things  to  say  and  do. 

"  You  must  go  alone,  Feo,"  she  said.  "  If  it 
were  Paul,  I  should  hate  any  one  to  come  with 
me.  He  will  be  so  glad  to  find  you  there.  Is  it 
not  lovely  to  wait  for  any  one — when  you  know 
that  he  must  come  ?  Oh !  I  saw  the  carriage 
leaving  the  stables  as  we  drove  up.  When  it  is 
here  again,  you  will  see  Jerome  in  it.  You  lucky 
girl — you  lucky,  lucky  girl." 

She  kissed  her  friend  with  a  young  girl's  affec- 
tion, and  ran  off  to  her  own  room.  But  Feo 
went  slowly  through  the  gardens  to  the  lodge 
gate,  wherefrom  she  could  see  the  road  to  Pont- 
arlier  threading  the  ripe,  green  valley  as  a  tape 
of  silver.  The  sun  still  shone  upon  the  woods ; 
the  fragrance  of  a  June  day  scented  the  evening 
air  ;  she  heard  the  village  bells,  even  the  distant 
echo  of  a  train  rolling  southward  from  Paris. 
But  a  strange  gloom  of  the  hour  and  the  solitude 
troubled  her  in  spite  of  all.  Jerome  was  coming. 


THE  EMPTY  CARRIAGE  151 

She  would  see  him  presently — far  off — upon  that 
winding  road  below.  He  would  tell  her  the 
news  of  the  day.  She  would  answer — she  knew 
not  what. 

So  she  waited,  restless,  excited  as  she  had 
rarely  been,  troubled  with  a  foreboding  she  could 
not  defend.  Seven  o'clock  had  long  been  struck 
upon  the  great  clock  in  the  stables  when,  at  last, 
she  espied  the  barouche  rolling  slowly  towards 
the  lodge.  For  some  minutes  her  uncertainty 
was  almost  a  pain.  She  strained  her  eyes  ;  she 
ran  a  little  way  down  the  road — she  returned 
again.  It  was  odd,  if  Jerome  were  in  the  car- 
riage, that  her  presence  at  the  gate  was  unob- 
served by  him.  And  if  he  had  not  come ! 

"Monsieur  was  not  at  the  station,  mademoi- 
selle. There  is  no  message.  I  fear  we  have 
made  a  mistake." 

She  heard  the  coachman's  excuse,  but  did  not 
answer  it.  The  worst  had  happened,  then.  Je- 
rome was  still  in  Paris.  She  could  not  imagine 
what  peril  of  their  love  had  contrived  to  keep 
him  there.  Nevertheless,  it  seemed  to  her,  as 
she  stood  overwhelmed  by  a  disappointment  sur- 
passing words,  that  night  already  had  come  down 
upon  the  hills. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  TELEGRAM 

FEO  was  just  dressed  on  the  following  morning 
when  Victorine  came  running  into  her  bedroom 
with  an  envelope,  which  she  waved  triumphantly 
as  a  trophy  of  victory. 

"  The  telegram  !  the  telegram !  he  is  coming, 
then ;  he  is  well.  Are  you  not  glad,  Feo?" 

She  was  breathless  with  excitement ;  the  wind 
of  morning  had  played  merry  tricks  with  her 
pretty  brown  hair ;  her  eyes  shone  with  the  de- 
light of  her  news.  When  Feo  took  the  paper 
with  trembling  fingers,  and  it  was  flattened  out, 
and  read  and  read  again,  Victorine's  arm  was 
about  her  waist,  and  she  was  still  unsilenced. 

"  I  said  that  it  was  only  a  mistake ;  you  would 
not  listen  to  me.  I  know  that  he  is  coming. 
Ma  tante  does  not  burn  your  letters  ;  she  burns 
mine.  If  it  had  been  Paul,  she  would  not  have 
told  me ;  but  it  is  Jerome,  and  she  loves  him. 
How  glad  I  am,  Feo !  how  glad ! " 

Feo  turned  and  kissed  her.  "  He  is  coming, 
dear ;  to-morrow,  if  he  can.  Read  it  for  your- 

152 


THE   TELEGKAM  153 

self.  I  hope  there  is  nothing  else,  nothing  which 
he  has  been  afraid  to  tell  me." 

It  was  a  short  message,  and  somewhat  vague. 
Victorine  read  it  twice,  and  her  ardour  of  glad- 
ness was  a  little  subdued.  She  debated  it,  pout- 
ing. 

"  To-morrow,  if  prudent ;  caution  detains." 

Feo  turned  away,  and  went  to  stand  at  the 
window.  There  were  clouds  above  the  valley, 
and  a  mist  fell  upon  the  gardens.  She  was  im- 
agining a  thousand  things,  but  she  would  not 
speak  of  them. 

"  He  will  be  here  to-morrow  if  his  friends  will 
let  him.  He  means  to  say  as  much.  If  I  thought 
that  there  was  anything  else " 

Victorine  laughed  girlishly. 

"  It  is  always  that  way — prudence,  prudence ; 
as  if  love  itself  were  not  prudence  enough.  Of 
course  he  will  come.  There  are  things  you  can- 
not say  in  a  telegram.  Last  night  I  thought 
that  it  was  something  dreadful.  I  dare  not  tell 
you,  Feo.  But  I  know  it's  all  right,  now ;  and 
I  shall  go  and  find  aunt.  It  will  make  her 
cross " 

It  was  Feo's  turn  to  laugh.  "  Why  should  it 
make  her  cross  ?  Does  she  not  wish  it  ?  " 

"  She  does  not  know  what  she  wishes.  If  I 
play  Faust  to  her,  she  says  it  isn't  Lohengrin. 
When  I  play  Lohengrin,  she  says  that  I  think 


154 

her  a  poor  old  woman  who  must  be  made  sad. 
she  will  be  cross  now  because  she  promised  such 
horrible  things  last  night.  And  none  of  them 
have  happened.  I  knew  they  would  not.  They 
couldn't  to  you,  Feo." 

"  We  must  not  laugh  until  we  are  out  of  the 
wood,  dear.  There  are  twenty-four  hours  be- 
tween us  and  to-morrow.  You  don't  know  how 
much  may  happen  in  twenty-four  hours.  Jerome 
has  many  enemies.  I  don't  think  he  is  half  as 
much  afraid  of  them  as  I  am.  If  he  would  think 
of  them  a  little  more,  I  might  hope  for  the  best. 
But  he  believes  that  he  is  so  strong,  and  that  is 
the  danger." 

She  spoke  as  one  reflecting ;  and,  truth  to  tell, 
that  haunting  shadow  of  doubt  had  pursued  her 
through  the  weary  night,  even  in  her  restless 
sleep.  The  magic  of  the  change  was  losing  its 
potency.  After  all,  she  was  a  stranger  in  that 
house.  Unless  Jerome  came,  she  could  not  con- 
tinue to  claim  the  hospitality  of  these  good 
friends  of  hers.  That  sense  of  indignity,  which 
she  had  experienced  in  the  Avenue  Marceau, 
came  again  to  destroy  her  dream  of  finality.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  was,  unwillingly,  the 
centre  of  an  intrigue  which  verged  upon  vul- 
garity. Until  that  time,  episode  had  followed 
episode  so  swiftly  that  she  had  been  unable  to 
reflect  upon  the  circumstances  of  her  flight  and 


THE  TELEGKAM  155 

its  consequences.  But  now,  hour  by  hour,  she 
began  to  see  the  matter  in  its  entirety,  to  weigh 
it  up,  to  assert  that  self-dependence  upon  which 
she  had  relied  almost  since  the  days  of  her  child- 
hood. She  said  that  she  had  erred  in  leaving 
Paris.  Her  duty  to  Jerome  ended  when  she  had 
kept  her  promise  and  had  gone  to  him  as  he  had 
wished.  Thereafter,  she  should  have  quitted 
France  and  left  her  fate  to  work  out  its  own 
course. 

It  was  a  confused,  illogical  argument ;  but  a 
woman's,  nevertheless,  and  very  logical  to  her. 
The  night  had  been  one  of  doubt  unresting,  of 
fleeting  ideas,  of  suggestions  of  danger  which  no 
circumstances  warranted.  She  had  a  thousand 
excuses  for  Jerome's  absence ;  but  none  of  them 
satisfied  her.  His  own  courage  and  confidence 
in  himself  could  not  win  her  faith.  She  feared 
for  him  as  she  had  never  feared  for  herself,  even 
in  the  darkest  hour  at  Lainberg's  house.  Those 
who  were  intriguing  against  her,  would  they  not, 
now  that  she  was  beyond  their  reach,  find  in  him 
their  subject  and  their  opportunity  ?  At  one 
moment,  in  the  silent  hours  of  sleeplessness,  she 
told  herself  that  they  had  trapped  him,  and  that 
he  was  already  on  his  way  to  Vienna.  At  the 
next,  she  remembered  his  boasts  and  took  heart 
anew.  When  her  hope  was  at  its  ebb,  she  could 
even  contemplate  his  death.  The  morning  gave 


156 

her  this  telegram  to  rebuke  such  foolish  forebod- 
ing. Nothing  had  happened  ;  all  those  shadows 
of  the  night,  they  were  but  shadows  still :  pru- 
dence had  kept  him  in  Paris.  He  would  come 
to  her  when  it  was  prudent  to  come.  The  curt, 
clear  phrase  was  so  like  Jerome.  He  said,  "  1 
will,"  and  would  brook  no  contradiction.  In  her 
heart  she  knew  that,  wherever  her  own  scruples 
might  carry  her,  thither  would  he  follow.  It 
was  her  destiny. 

Madame  la  Comtesse  sat  in  the  little  morning- 
room  when  the  girls  discovered  her.  A  cup  of 
Spanish  chocolate  steamed  before  her ;  she  had  a 
book  in  her  lap,  and  many  papers  and  journals 
from  Paris  on  the  little  table  at  her  side.  When 
she  perceived  the  telegram  which  Feo  carried, 
she  stretched  out  a  lean  and  withered  hand,  and 
laughed  in  that  resonant,  discordant  key  which 
was  the  terror  of  her  servants. 

"  There  it  is,  then !  And  the  renegade  keeps 
faith  with  us.  He  has  cheated  his  gaolers,  child ; 
the  brave  heart !  Oh  !  we  shall  be  too  much  for 
them  ;  we  shall  find  you  a  husband.  The  good 
God  help  me !  where  are  my  spectacles  ?  " 

Yictorine  tittered.  "  They  are  on  your  nose, 
aunt.  What  folly!  about  the  gaolers.  As  if 
there  were  such  things  nowadays.  Jerome  is 
very  well,  and  is  coming  to-morrow.  I  said  it 
was  all  nonsense,  and  Feo  knew  it.  We  are 


THE  TELEGRAM  157 

going  to  Pontarlier  to  meet  him,  and  I  shall  drive 
Christobel.  People  say  she's  dangerous,  and  it's 
interesting." 

The  old  lady  did  not  hear  her.  She  was  mut- 
tering over  the  telegram  with  a  child's  delight  in 
a  mystery. 

"  Prudence — ah,  the  dear  boy,  to  think  of  it ! 
That  would  mean  that  they  are  following  him. 
He  is  afraid  to  write.  I  said  so.  They  will 
never  let  him  out  of  their  sight.  I  know  those 
Austrians.  You  must  not  leave  the  grounds, 
child.  Cesar  shall  ride  through  the  woods  and 
tell  us  if  any  one  is  there.  'Caution  detains.' 
He  is  afraid  to  say  more.  We  shall  be  prudent 
in  our  turn,  for  his  friends  will  stick  at  nothing. 
I  remember  Marie  Loisel  in  Yienna,  twenty, 
twenty-two  years  ago.  She  was  the  friend  of  the 
Archduke  Ferdinand.  He  promised  to  marry 
her.  In  a  week  she  was  dead — they  said  of  heart 
disease.  It  was  their  story — for  the  world.  I 
heard  another  story — remember  that,  dear :  there 
was  another  story.  "We  must  watch  night  and 
day  ;  it  is  our  duty." 

Feo  heard  her  indifferently.  "  You  have  been 
very  kind  to  me,  and  I  shall  remember  it.  I  fear 
that  Jerome  has  not  told  us  all.  And,  of  course 
I  cannot  stay  here  now." 

The  old  lady  raised  her  hands  in  a  gesture  of 
reproof  and  surprise. 


158  FfiO 

"  Cannot  stay !  The  good  God  help  us !  What 
an  idea,  child !  "Where  would  you  go  to  with  that 
pretty  face  of  yours  ?  And  leave  my  boy !  Come, 
come,  I  like  pretty  faces  about  me.  "While  I  live, 
you  shall  want  for  nothing  at  the  Chateau  de 
Joux.  Is  it  because  I  am  a  lonely  old  woman, 
with  an  ungrateful  child  to  trouble  me  all  day, 
that  you  speak  of  it  ?  Ah !  the  world  is  very 
unkind,  little  singer." 

Feo  knew  not  how  to  answer.  Yictorine  re- 
belled and  turned  away  peevishly. 

"  I  wish  I  were  a  lonely  old  woman  sometimes," 
she  said ;  "  there  would  be  no  one  then  to  burn 
my  letters." 

But  madame  did  not  hear  her. 

"  Sing  to  me,  child,"  she  said  to  Feo.  "  I  have 
heard  all  the  great  singers ;  I  am  as  old  as  that. 
Fifty  years  ago  I  was  at  Dresden,  when  the  peo- 
ple would  not  hear  Tannhduser.  "What  wicked- 
ness !  what  folly !  But  the  world  always  says 
4  bravo '  a  long  time  after  the  curtain  is  down. 
You  would  make  a  fortune  on  the  stage,  my  dear. 
You  have  everything — youth,  a  pretty  face,  a 
heart  to  sing  well.  Your  father  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  himself.  I  shall  tell  him  so  some 
day." 

Feo  sighed.  "  I  have  been  singing  for  three 
years,  and  they  gave  me  five  pounds  a  week.  I 
can't  blame  my  father  for  that.  If  he  had  his 


THE  TELEGKAM  159 

way.  all  the  other  artistes  would  have  been  sent 
away,  and  there  would  have  been- no  one  at  Co- 
vent  Garden  except  myself.  That  is  always  the 
misfortune  of  second-rate  talent.  It  allows  noth- 
ing to  genius,  and  everything  to  its  enemies. 
But  I  know  the  truth  :  I  have  so  much  to  learn. 
I  despair  sometimes  of  learning  anything." 

Madame  chuckled.  "  Those  days  are  over," 
she  said  decisively.  "  The  wife  of  a  Hapsburg 
does  not  need  to  learn  anything.  The  world  will 
say  you  are  a  genius  the  day  after  you  are  mar- 
ried, child.  It  said  Wagner  was  mad  because  a 
mad  king  discovered  him.  Perhaps  it  was  right. 
Donizetti  was  sane  because  he  made  the  world 
dance.  Sing  Tannhduser  to  me.  I  am  too  old 
to  dance." 

Feo  obeyed  her ;  and  in  her  art  forgot  a  little 
while  that  to-morrow  Jerome  would  come.  The 
gloomy  day  dragged  to  its  end  laboriously.  To 
her  questions  there  was  ever  the  same  answer : 
"  No  news,  no  news." 


CHAPTEK  XIX 

PEKIL 

A  MORNING  of  soft  breezes  and  generous  sun- 
shine followed  that  sombre  day  of  gloom  and 
mists.  The  valley  life,  veiled  yesterday  under 
the  pall  of  cloud  and  looming  vapours,  burst  out 
anew  as  a  stream  long  dammed.  Birds  sang  in 
the  gardens  their  note  of  liberty  new  found  and 
of  the  summer's  victory.  The  air  was  balmy 
with  the  odours  of  blossoms  which  the  warm  rain 
fostered.  Even  Madame  la  Comtesse  forgot  that 
she  was  a  lonely  old  woman,  and  had  eyes  to  see 
the  beauty  of  her  house.  Everywhere  the  har- 
vesters went  cheerfully  to  their  work.  The  bells 
rang  out  sweet  music.  It  was  a  joy  to  breathe 
on  such  a  day. 

Feo  had  slept  but  little.  She  was  very  pale 
and  thoughtful  when  she  came  out  to  the  arbour 
wherein  dejeuner  had  been  prepared ;  nor  could 
she  participate  in  Victorine's  childish  delight  and 
unfailing  optimism.  It  was  true  that  Jerome  had 
promised  to  come  to-day ;  true  that  if  he  kept  his 
promise,  there  would  be  no  more  night  for  her. 
Nevertheless,  the  doubt  of  it  remained.  There 

160 


PEKIL  161 

was  always  a  "  but "  now  to  war  upon  her  antici- 
pation. He  would  come — if  prudence  permitted. 
And  he  had  sent  no  other  message.  There  had 
been  no  word  from  him  yesterday.  The  morning 
brought  neither  letter  nor  telegram. 

"  That's  because  he  is  coming,"  said  Yictorine, 
when  she  had  kissed  Feo  boisterously  and  dragged 
her  to  her  seat ;  "  ma  tante  is  sure  of  it,  and  she 
is  old  enough  to  be  a  prophetess.  If  he  had  been 
detained,  he  would  have  sent  another  telegram. 
We  are  to  drive  to  Pontarlier  to  meet  the  even- 
ing train.  Aunt  says  it's  dangerous  for  you  to 
go.  You  must  read  the  Lives  of  the  Saints  until 
we  come  back.  It's  her  favourite  book.  She 
likes  the  part  about  the  horrible  tortures.  "Won't 
you  be  glad  because  it's  to-day,  Feo  ?  " 

"  If  it  is  to-day,  of  course  I  shall  be  glad,  dear. 
I  am  getting  into  that  state  when  one  believes 
in  nothing — except  the  things  one  doesn't  want 
to  believe  in.  If  Jerome  doesn't  come  soon,  I 
shall  go  back  to  Paris  to  ask  him  why.  It  would 
be  dreadfully  silly,  but,  then,  it  is  better  to  be 
silly  than  to  do  nothing  at  all.  If  I  stop  here 
another  week,  I  shall  be  as  old  as  your  aunt, 
Yictorine." 

Yictorine  clapped  her  hands. 

"  What  an  idea !  If  we  could  go  to  Paris !  I 
have  two  hundred  francs  upstairs,  and  we  might 
drive  over  this  morning.  Aunt  would  never  miss 


162 

us  until  dinner-time,  and  then  it  would  be  too 
late.  I  should  see  Paul  and  come  back  again. 
Don't  you  think  it's  splendid  ?  " 

"It  would  be  splendid  in  a  book.  And,  of 
course,  you  wouldn't  mind  walking  back  when 
our  picnic  was  over.  We  should  have  to  do  that, 
I  fear,  unless  you  could  flirt  with  the  railway 
company,  dear." 

Victorine  pouted. 

"  I  feel  sometimes  that  I  could  flirt  with  any- 
thing— even  the  postman.  Imagine  a  romance 
with  a  postman !  He  would  bring  his  own  let- 
ters, and  you  needn't  put  yours  into  the  bag. 
When  you  wrote  to  tell  him  that  all  was  over 
and  you  were  another's,  you  could  watch  him 
crying  as  he  went  down  the  lane.  There's  a 
plot  for  a  romance ! " 

She  babbled  on,  stimulated  by  the  sunshine 
and  the  sweet,  fresh  breeze  of  that  perfect  day. 
Though  the  post  had  brought  no  news  from  Paris, 
there  was  other  news,  and  she  rejoiced  at  it. 

"Michon,  the  costumier,  brings  your  walking 
dress  this  morning,  and  Jerome  will  see  you  in  it 
when  we  come  back.  Aunt  says  you  are  not  to 
leave  the  grounds,  but  that's  her  nonsense.  I 
shall  tell  him  you  will  be  at  the  cascade,  Feo. 
White  is  your  colour,  and  you'll  look  jolly.  They 
like  us  to  be  pale ;  Paul  told  me  so.  It's  more 
interesting,  and  they  can  sympathise.  Paul  used 


PEKIL  163 

to  sympathise  every  night  when  aunt  was  asleep. 
He  said  his  hands  were  soft,  and  he  would  stroke 
my  poor  little  head.  They  were  such-  hard  hands 
— but  I  never  grumbled.  I  told  him  I  would  get 
well  for  his  sake,  and  all  the  time  I  was  as  well 
as  anything.  When  Jerome  sees  you  to-night, 
he  will  be  awfully  kind  because  you're  ill.  It's 
nice  when  they're  awfully  kind,  I  think.  Ma 
tante  is  going  to  wear  her  brocade  to-day.  She's 
just  like  one  of  the  old  women  in  the  history 
books  when  she  wears  that.  If  Jerome  doesn't 
come  to-day,  she'll  declare  that  they've  executed 
him  in  a  dungeon.  As  if  such  things  could  hap- 
pen in  our  time !  Let's  go  and  ride  the  ponies, 
Feo.  I'll  lend  you  my  green  habit,  and  you 
shall  have  Christobel.  To-night  will  never  come 
if  we  don't  do  something  heroic." 

Feo  accepted  eagerly.  Jerome  had  taught  her 
to  ride  in  the  old  days  in  Vienna.  She  was  a 
good  horsewoman,  and  a  gallop  over  the  splendid 
grass  land  of  the  outer  park  stimulated  her  cour- 
age and  brought  colour  to  her  pretty  cheeks. 
She  did  not  see  the  Countess  until  the  day  was 
growing  old,  and  it  was  time  for  them  to  bring 
the  great  barouche  to  the  door ;  but  at  that  hour 
the  old  lady  appeared  for  the  first  time  that  day, 
radiant  in  a"  splendid  robe  which  might  have 
come  straight  from  the  museum  of  antiquities 
at  Versailles. 


164  FfiO 

"  We  are  going  to  bring  the  renegade  back," 
she  said  triumphantly,  as  footmen  busied  about 
her,  and  maids  spread  rugs,  and  she  was  hoisted 
to  her  seat  as  luggage  to  a  van.  "  I  shall  scold 
him  for  making  my  little  girl  pale  to-day.  And 
she  will  not  leave  the  house.  She  will  be  prudent 
— eh,  little  singer,  you  mean  to  be  prudent  ?  " 

"  I  am  prudence  itself,"  said  Feo. 

"  Eemember  that  our  enemies  are  many.  They 
will  not  come  to  my  house,  for  they  know  me. 
I  shall  write  to  the  Archduke  and  tell  him  that 
he  has  made  a  fool  of  himself.  You  are  safe  at 
the  Chateau  de  Joux,  child.  The  good  God  help 
me !  what  have  they  done  to  the  cushions  ?  " 

"  How  stupid  you  are,  aunt !  "  exclaimed  Yic- 
torine  testily.  "  You're  sitting  on  the  medicine 
bottles.  And  I  believe  you've  killed  Aphrodite." 

"  Ah,  the  poor  thing !  But  she's  not  like  the 
others.  She  can  put  up  with  a  little  because  she 
loves  me.  To  the  Gare,  Cesar.  "We  shall  have 
luggage  to  bring  back.  Do  not  keep  his  high- 
ness waiting." 

She  dwelt  a  little  upon  the  phrase,  for  even 
Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Berge  could  not  wholly 
conceal  the  pride  with  which  she  welcomed  a 
Prince  to  her  house.  Feo  heard  the  words  as 
the  carriage  rolled  away  ;  and  then  she  repeated 
them  again  and  again.  Had  she  truly  realised 
Jerome's  birthright  before  that  day  ?  she  asked 


WIC    AKK    COINc;    TO    HRING    THE    RKXKUAOK    1SACK. 


PERIL  165 

herself.  "When  first  she  met  him  in  Vienna,  it 
was  as  one  who  claimed  none  of  those  privileges 
attending  his  position,  but  lived  rather  the  free 
life  of  a  Bohemian  and  an  artist.  Many  of  his 
tastes  were  frankly  democratic.  He  professed 
contempt  for  the  empty  ceremonies  of  an  ex- 
clusive court;  contempt  for  the  coxcombs  and 
vain  women  and  shallow  children  of  prejudice 
who  composed  the  elect  of  Vienna.  Yet  it  was 
a  good-natured  contempt ;  and  she  knew  that,  at 
heart,  he  clung  to  the  patrician  heritage,  and  es- 
teemed nobility  none  the  less  because  he  must 
chide  the  follies  of  his  age.  A  splendid  soldier  ; 
an  athlete  who  had  learned  his  athletics  in  Eng- 
land; a  musician  by  education  and  by  taste — 
the  man  himself  stood  out  above  his  fellows 
rather  by  his  own  gifts  than  by  any  magic  of 
heredity.  To  Feo  he  had  been  as  one  of  her  own 
circle — the  witty  Jerome  always ;  her  lover 
rather  than  the  Archduke's  heir.  Some  day,  she 
understood  vaguely,  he  would  inherit  that  great 
white  palace  in  Vienna  and  those  boundless  hills 
and  woods  which  bordered  the  Danube,  and  were 
the  Archduke's  birthright.  But  that  day  was  of 
the  future,  not  to  be  contemplated,  a  day  for 
dreams.  Feo  said  it  was  amusing  to  hear  Jerome 
called  "  highness."  She  would  tell  the  story  to 
him  when  he  arrived. 

It  was  difficult  to  pass  away  the  time,  for  she 


166  FfiO 

was  too  excited  to  read,  and  she  must  not  go  be- 
yond the  gates,  and  even  the  task  of  exploring 
the  chateau  could  weary  her  at  last.  Once  or 
twice  she  ventured  to  the  lodge  and  gazed  down 
at  the  sleeping  valley,  so  still  in  the  first  hush  of 
eventide.  Or  she  would  pace  the  gardens  rest- 
lessly and  roam  the  great  galleries,  and  tell  her- 
self that  Jerome  was  coming,  that  he  would  not 
disappoint  her  twice,  and  that  she  would  hear 
his  voice  and  hold  his  hand  in  hers  before  an 
hour  had  passed.  Wherever  impulse  carried  her, 
she  found  herself,  at  the  end,  looking  out  over 
the  road  to  Pontarlier.  He  would  come  that 
way.  She  would  espy  the  carriage  when  it  was 
but  a  speck  upon  the  horizon.  The  idea  of  dan- 
ger amused  her.  What  danger  could  there  be  in 
a  place  so  remote  from  Paris  and  the  Austrian  ? 
The  Countess  was  really  very  amusing.  Feo 
ventured  into  the  woods  at  last,  for  there  was  a 
place  there,  upon  the  very  border  of  the  road, 
where  the  view  was  superb,  and  even  Pontarlier 
itself  could  be  discerned. 

She  ventured  into  the  wood  and  took  her  stand 
in  a  little  arbour  above  the  cascade  which  fell 
from  the  hillside  to  the  burn  far  down  in  the 
valley  below.  It  was  six  o'clock  then ;  and 
everywhere  in  the  distant  villages,  and  from  the 
steeples  of  the  little  churches,  perched  high  in 
the  mountains  above  her.  the  Angelus  was  pro- 


PERIL  167 

claimed  by  dulcet  bells.  At  such  an  hour  the  si- 
lence of  the  summer  evening  was  intense,  almost 
oppressive.  It  seemed  to  Feo  that  she  had  come 
to  a  spot  lonely  beyond  her  imagination. 

Laugh  as  she  might  at  the  Countess's  alarms,  a 
memory  of  them  grew  upon  her  and  was  not  to 
be  put  aside.  She  recollected  suddenly  that  she 
was  alone  there — far  from  the  chateau,  beyond 
the  hearing  of  any  of  the  chateau's  people.  An- 
other hour  must  pass  before  she  might  hope  to 
see  the  carriage  returning  on  the  lonely  white 
road  below.  She  would  spend  it  in  the  house, 
she  said,  at  the  piano ;  and,  so  resolving,  she  was 
about  to  quit  the  arbour,  when  she  heard  a  foot- 
step upon  the  gravel  path  without,  and  turning 
quickly,  she  found  herself  face  to  face  with  Otto 
Lamberg.  It  was  as  though  one  had  struck  her 
a  blow. 

The  Austrian  was  dressed  faultlessly — she  had 
never  seen  him  when  the  same  might  not  have 
been  said.  His  hat,  which  shone  as  a  mirror, 
seemed  to  have  been  purchased  that  very  morn- 
ing ;  his  grey  frock  suit  was  such  as  men  usually 
display  at  garden  parties.  He  carried  the  cane 
with  the  gold  and  amber  head  in  his  left  hand  ; 
his  right  played  with  the  eye-glass  which  dan- 
gled upon  his  chest.  That  bland  smile  of  his 
greeted  her  when  first  she  observed  him,  and  he 
continued  to  smile  while  he  spoke  to  her. 


168 

"  Miss  Feo,"  he  said  suavely,  "  I  fear  that  this 
is  an  impertinent  intrusion." 

Feo  trembled  in  spite  of  herself.  She  heard 
now  that  which  she  had  not  heard  before,  a 
rumble  of  wheels  on  the  road  without.  This  man 
had  come  in  a  carriage,  then — but  not  from  Pont- 
arlier.  She  was  sure  of  it;  no  carriage  had 
crossed  the  valley  while  she  had  been  there. 
He  had  driven  by  the  road  from  the  Swiss 
frontier.  The  truth  frightened  her  almost  as 
much  as  his  presence ;  but  she  answered  him 
quite  coldly. 

"  I  express  no  opinion,  Captain  Lamberg,  until 
I  have  heard  what  business  brings  you  here." 

He  advanced  a  little  way  towards  her  and 
bowed  slightly.  His  manners  were  not  to  be 
surpassed,  she  thought. 

"  My  business  is  your  business,  mademoiselle  ; 
the  interest  of  one,  who  is  none  the  less  my 
friend  because  he  is  yours.  In  Paris  you  chose 
to  misunderstand  me  and  my  actions.  I  will  not 
seek  at  this  time  to  convince  you  of  the  injustice 
that  you  did  me.  I  would  have  kept  you  in  my 
house,  not  for  my  own  pleasure,  but  for  yours. 
The  mistake  has  cost  you  much.  It  has  cost  our 
friend  more." 

She  breathed  quickly.  He  watched  her  as  an 
advocate  may  watch  a  quailing  witness.  When 
she  laughed  nervously,  he  knew  that  she  sought 


PERIL  169 

to  disbelieve  him,  yet  could  not  convince  her- 
self. 

"  Captain  Lamberg,"  she  said  quietly,  "  when  a 
man  does  not  tell  the  truth,  do  you  believe  him  a 
second  time  ?  " 

He  made  a  gesture  of  protest. 

"  Does  not  tell  the  truth,  mademoiselle !  Is  it 
possible  — 

"  It  is  quite  possible." 

"  You  offend  me.  The  reference  is  to  the 
Prince's  arrival  in  Paris,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  And  if  it  is  ?  " 

"  If  it  is,  permit  me  to  say  that  I  knew  noth- 
ing of  it.  The  Embassy  did  not  advise  me  until 
you  had  left  my  house.  It  would  have  been  a  lie 
if  I  had  told  you  that  Prince  Jerome  was  in  Paris 
when  I  believed  him  to  be*  in  London.  Do  me 
the  justice  to  confirm  that  statement  before  you 
condemn  me." 

He  spoke  almost  appealingly,  in  a  low,  pleas- 
ing voice  that  was  difficult  to  resist.  Neverthe- 
less, she  knew  that  he  was  not  telling  her  the 
truth.  Something  of  that  terror  she  had  experi- 
enced in  the  Avenue  Marceau  was  hers  again  in 
that  instant ;  but  she  did  not  seek  to  escape  him. 
There  was  a  subtle  fascination  of  his  argument 
which  held  her  to  the  spot.  She  found  herself 
scanning  the  lonely  road  to  Pontarlier  almost 
pitifully.  If  Jerome  were  to  come  ! 


170 

"  I  cannot  discuss  it  with  you,"  she  exclaimed 
at  last,  desperately.  "You  say  that  you  have 
business  with  me.  "What  is  it?  I  am  among 
friends  here — they  shall  help  me  to  do  you  jus- 
tice." 

He  smiled  again. 

"  Miss  Feo,"  he  said,  "  if  I  had  come  as  your 
enemy,  it  would  not  have  been  to  the  Chateau 
de  Joux  in  broad  daylight.  If  you  doubt  me, 
summon  your  servants  here.  I  will  tell  them 
that  your  father  is  waiting  in  a  carriage  twenty 
paces  from  this  arbour.  If  he  is  not  a  fit  com- 
panion for  his  daughter " 

She  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"  My  father,  here " 

"  As  I  say.  He  is  in  the  carriage  which  you 
can  see  through  the  trees  there." 

Her  face  was  white  now;  he  could  see  how 
deeply  the  news  troubled  her.  Impossible  to 
summon  the  servants  to  defend  herself  against 
her  own  father.  Hope  left  her  in  that  instant. 
He  had  reckoned  upon  her  reluctance,  she 
thought. 

"  Why  does  my  father  come  here  ?  "  she  asked 
slowly ;  "  why  does  he  wish  to  see  me  ?  " 

Lamberg  took  another  step  towards  her,  and 
spoke  as  one  imparting  a  great  secret. 

"  To  tell  you  that  you  wait  here  in  vain ;  to 
tell  you  that  our  friend  will  not  be  permitted  to 


PERIL  171 

leave  Paris  until  it  is  known  that  you  have 
quitted  the  Chateau  de  Joux.  See  how  great  a 
misfortune  you  have  brought  upon  us.  A  little 
patience  in  my  house  and  all  would  have  been 
well.  You  distrust  me — yet  even  now  I  am  not 
unwilling  to  be  your  servant.  Come,  Miss  Feo, 
do  you  think  that  I  would  betray  the  oldest  of 
my  friends,  a  brother  officer,  one  who  has  faced 
death  with  me  many  a  time,  one  whom  I  love 
with  all  my  heart  ?  It  is  for  his  sake  that  I  am 
here  to-night.  Let  your  father  speak  to  you,  and 
he  will  tell  you  how  great  a  wrong  that  you  do 
me!" 

There  was  rather  an  appeal  to  her  charity  than 
any  suggestion  of  command  in  his  entreaty. 
While  she  knew  that  the  man  was  unworthy 
even  of  a  hearing,  the  fact  that  her  father  waited 
for  her,  not  twenty  paces  from  the  arbour,  com- 
pelled her  to  listen  to  him.  Again  she  scanned 
the  lonely  road  to  Pontarlier.  There  was  not 
one  human  thing  to  be  seen  upon  it.  The  bushes 
around  her  were  silent  with  that  silence  which 
heralds  tempest.  A  solitary  bird  sustained  a 
plaintive  note  in  the  copse  beyond  the  arbour. 
The  gardens  themselves  were  without  voice  or 
life.  She  could  hope  for  no  counsellor,  could 
count  upon  no  friend. 

"  I  will  see  my  father,"  she  exclaimed  at  last, 
when  it  was  plain  to  her  that  there  was  no  other 


172  FfiO 

course;  "but  I  shall  not  leave  this  house — at 
least,  until  my  friends  come." 

"  You  are  your  own  mistress,  mademoiselle.  I 
can  only  tell  you  the  circumstances,  and  leave 
you  to  act  upon  them  as  you  please." 

Had  she  been  thinking  of  the  man  alone,  it  is 
possible  that  he  would  have  been  unable  to  con- 
ceal the  delight  with  which  he  anticipated  her 
surrender.  The  nervous  movement  of  his  hands, 
a  restless  change  of  attitude,  might  well  have 
told  his  story.  But  Feo  was  asking  herself  what 
she  should  say  to  her  father.  It  was  a  strange 
meeting,  she  thought.  The  gloom  of  the  old  life 
seemed  to  wrap  itself  about  her  again  as  she 
quitted  the  arbour. 

"  My  father  is  in  the  carriage  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Certainly,  he  is  in  the  carriage.  There  is  a 
little  gate  here ;  you  know  it,  perhaps  ?  We  did 
not  care  to  drive  up  to  the  house,  as  you  will 
understand.  I  was  for  going  to  the  village  and 
coming  back  in  the  morning  ;  but  as  we  passed, 
we  saw  you  in  the  arbour,  and  so  time  is  saved. 
If  we  are  to  be  of  service  to  our  friend,  we  must 
not  delay.  Ah,  the  thorns  tear  your  pretty 
dress ;  let  me  help  you " 

He  held  the  gate  open  for  her,  and  she  passed 
through.  So  close  had  the  brougham,  of  which  he 
spoke,  been  driven  to  the  pathway,  that  she  could 
have  touched  it  with  her  hand  when  she  came  out. 


PEKIL  1T3 

At  the  first  glance  it  was  not  a  carriage  which 
called  for  notice.  There  were  two  men  upon  the 
box  of  it,  and  they  touched  their  hats  to  her  in 
the  English  fashion.  The  horses  were  big  bays, 
seemingly  quite  fresh  and  ready  for  a  journey. 
There  was  nothing  to  quicken  that  suspicion 
which  the  scene  in  the  arbour  had  already 
awakened.  Believing  that  her  father  sat  in  the 
carriage,  and  that  she  must  face  an  angry  scene 
with  him,  she  went  straight  to  the  door  which 
Lamberg  held  open  for  her.  At  the  same  instant 
the  man  put  his  left  arm  firmly  about  her  waist, 
and  closing  his  right  hand  upon  her  mouth,  he 
lifted  her  from  her  feet  and  pushed  her  into  the 
brougham.  One  of  the  men  upon  the  box  sprang 
down  and  shut  the  door.  The  coachman  slashed 
his  whip ;  the  horses  started  off  at  a  gallop ;  a 
cloud  of  white  dust  alone  marked  the  path  they 
followed. 

"Do  not  distress  yourself,  young  lady.  We 
shall  not  hurt  you.  You  have  made  it  necessary. 
Accept  the  inevitable." 

Feo,  breathless,  with  hair  awry  and  crimson 
cheeks,  sank  back  upon  the  cushions  and  laughed 
in  the  Austrian's  face. 

"  I  knew  that  it  was  a  lie,"  she  exclaimed,  al- 
most as  one  speaking  in  the  triumph  of  a  proph- 
ecy fulfilled. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE   KOAD   TO    NEUFCHATEL 

TWILIGHT  had  been  coming  down  upon  the 
hills  when  they  quitted  the  arbour.  It  was  al- 
ready growing  dark  upon  the  lower  road  as  the 
carriage  rolled  on  at  a  gallop  towards  Neufchatel 
and  the  Swiss  frontier.  But  to  Feo  neither  day- 
light nor  darkness  mattered.  She  did  not  think 
of  the  route  or  of  her  environment.  While  her 
head  was  a  whirl  of  ideas,  of  reproaches,  of  re- 
grets, of  anger,  nevertheless,  that  self-control, 
which  rarely  deserted  her  even  in  the  crises  of 
her  life,  remained  to  her.  From  the  first  it  had 
been  plain  that  she  would  gain  nothing  by  a 
scene.  There  were  three  men  with  the  carriage. 
Had  she  cried  out,  her  cries  would  have  been 
cast  back  by  the  walls  of  the  ravine  through 
which  the  carriage  passed.  To  appeal  to  the 
pity  of  such  a  creature  of  intrigue  as  Otto  Lam- 
berg  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  She  stood  alone, 
relying  upon  her  courage  and  her  brains.  Fear 
of  what  might  come  after  was  less  a  factor  than 
the  thought  that  Jerome  might  even  then  be  on 
his  way  from  Pontarlier.  She  imagined  the  sur- 
prise, the  apprehension,  the  distress  of  her  friends 
174 


THE  KOAD  TO  NEUFCHATEL      1T5 

at  the  chateau.  And  old  Madame  de.  Berge! 
Feo  laughed  again  when  she  remembered  what 
a  tale  that  would  be  for  the  Countess  to  relate. 

"  You  are  amused,  then,  mademoiselle  !  Bravo ! 
that  is  the  way  to  take  it.  If  you  continue  to  be 
sensible,  we  will  lower  the  shutters,  and  it  will 
not  be  so  stuffy  in  here." 

She  looked  at  the  windows  of  the  carriage, 
and  observed  that  the  shutters  covered  the  glass. 
But  she  did  not  answer  Lamberg,  and  he  con- 
tinued apologetically  — 

"  I  fear  that  I  was  very  rough.  I  could  not 
help  it.  Am  I  not  a  monster  to  treat  you  so  ?  " 

She  tossed  her  head  back  upon  the  cushions 
and  replied  defiantly. 

"  Agreed,"  she  said,  remembering  the  slang  of 
her  schooldays.  "  Tell  me  some  more  stories ; 
they  are  amusing." 

He  replied  by  lowering  the  shutter  upon  his 
side  and  letting  down  the  glass. 

"  You  are  sensible,  I  see.  That  is  well.  We 
shall  understand  each  other  presently.  Do  you 
know  where  we  are  going  to  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  and  I  don't  care.  Were  you 
ever  an  actor,  Captain  Lamberg?  How  you 
would  have  made  the  people  cry!  Think  of 
your  dearest  friend  whom  you  love  like  your 
own  brother ! " 

He  fixed  his  glass  in  his  eye  and  stared  at  her. 


176  FfiO 

Tears,  entreaties,  those  he  had  expected ;  but  this 
indifference  was  beyond  his  reckoning. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  he  said ;  "the  time  for  all  that 
is  past.  I  have  the  greatest  sympathy  for  you. 
I  wish  I  could  help  you.  But  I  am  a  servant  of 
the  State,  and  my  duty  must  be  done.  In  the 
end  you  will  thank  me,  and  our  friend  will  thank 
me.  He  is  returning  to  Vienna,  where  he  has 
his  work  to  do.  You  are  going  back  to  London, 
where  your  father  is  waiting  for  you.  The  rest 
was  all  folly — the  folly  of  two  children.  You  are 
a  sensible  girl,  and  will  come  to  see  that  by  and 
by.  The  Prince  is  an  impulsive  fellow,  and  will 
not  see  it  so  quickly.  But  it  is  all  for  the  best, 
believe  me." 

She  sat  up  in  the  carriage.  The  gesture 
alarmed  him.  He  thought  that  she  was  about 
to  cry  out,  and  his  hand  went  to  the  window. 

"  Believe  you  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

He  released  the  strap  and  nodded  his  head. 

"  There  are  times  to  believe,  and  times  not  to 
believe,"  he  said ;  "  a  wise  head  judges  between 
them.  When  the  truth  serves  me,  I  tell  it.  The 
State  has  no  conscience,  Miss  Feo.  I  am  the 
State  in  this  matter." 

"How  flattered  I  should  be!  Here  is  the 
State  ready  to  jump  out  of  the  window  when  I 
lift  a  finger." 

He  laughed  in  spite  of  himself. 


THE  ROAD  TO  NEUFCHATEL      177 

"Come,"  he  said,  "help  me  to  make  this  a 
pleasant  journey.  You  cannot  make  it  anything 
else.  Circumstances  are  unkind  enough  to  be 
against  you.  I  have  authority  at  my  back.  I 
have  only  to  raise  my  hand  so " 

"  And  the  stars  go  out.  Please  do  not  raise  it. 
I  want  to  see  the  State  while  I  can." 

He  was  very  angry,  but  had  sense  enough  to 
ignore  the  interruption. 

"  I  have  only  to  raise  my  hand,  so,"  be  repeated, 
"and  the  first  gendarme  we  meet  will  be  my 
willing  servant.  The  French  Government  is  the 
friend  of  the  Austrian  Government  in  this  affair. 
It  forbids  you  to  remain  any  longer  in  France, 
mademoiselle.  I  am  instructed  to  see  you  to 
Calais,  and,  if  you  wish  it,  to  London,  where 
your  father  waits  for  you.  He  approves  all  that 
I  am  doing.  He  no  longer  desires  that  his  daugh- 
ter shall  pursue  a  chimera." 

"He  is  concerned  for  me,  my  father;  how 
touching ! "  x 

"  Possibly ;  the  domestic  emotions  are  not  under 
discussion.  I  have  only  to  ask  you  to  behave 
sensibly.  This  affair  is  very  distasteful  to  me. 
You  will  believe  that,  Miss  Feo  ?  " 

"  Oh,  of  course ;  I  have  your  word,  Captain 
Lamberg." 

"And  you  will  promise  me  to  do  nothing 
foolish?" 


178 

She  looked  at  him  scornfully. 

"Do  you  expect  that  I  shall  make  a  scene, 
then — call  upon  Heaven  to  help  me  and  appeal 
to  the  first  sergent  de  mile  we  meet  ?  Oh  no,  I 
shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  We  are  not  at  the 
opera.  I  might  imagine  you  as  Mephisto  if  you 
didn't  wear  an  eye-glass;  but  really,  Captain 
Lamberg " 

She  laughed  at  her  own  thoughts  and  nestled 
back  in  the  cushions.  He  gnawed  the  end  of  his 
stick,  but  would  not  permit  himself  the  luxury  of 
a  temper.  After  all,  he  had  won  the  game.  He 
could  forgive  her  these  little  stabs  at  his  vanity. 

"  We  shall  be  friends  yet,"  he  said,  peering  out 
of  the  window  as  they  approached  a  little  village 
and  the  shriek  of  a  railway  whistle  came  faint 
upon  the  breeze ;  "  when  you  are  in  London,  you 
will  see  things  as  I  see  them.  Meanwhile,  here 
is  the  station.  You  know  Boveresse,  made- 
moiselle ?  " 

"  I  never  heard  of  it." 

"  It  is  on  the  line  from  Neufchatel.  They  are 
stopping  the  Paris  express  for  me.  I  have 
reserved  a  carriage  for  you.  At  Pontarlier  you 
shall  have  a  wagon-lit  if  you  will  give  me  your 
word  to  be  sensible." 

"  Your  kindness  is  overwhelming !  How  grate- 
ful the  Prince  will  be  to  you !  I  shall  never  for- 
get this  delightful  journey." 


THE  EOAD  TO  NEUFCHATEL      179 

He  looked  at  her  sharply.  She  was  still  very 
pale,  but,  apparently,  there  was  no  thought  now 
of  contesting  the  circumstances.  He  argued  that 
she  was  a  sensible  girl  and  had  accepted  the 
inevitable.  It  was  just  as  well,  he  remembered, 
that  this  should  be  so.  A  scene  was  as  distaste- 
ful to  him  as  it  was  to  her.  Besides,  such  a 
fatality  might  help  to  make  the  affair  public. 
He  would  have  given  a  thousand  pounds  to  have 
kept  any  word  of  that  night's  work  from  the 
newspapers. 

"  This  is  the  station,  young  lady.  You  will  not 
give  us  any  trouble,  I  am  sure." 

"  Trouble  !     Am  I  a  convict,  then  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  you  will  be  reasonable  ?  " 

."  I  am  always  reasonable." 

"  And  understand  that  this  is  for  the  best.  I 
shall  not  forget  to  give  a  good  account  of  you  at 
Vienna." 

"  Most  flattering !  Please  give  my  love  to  all 
the  people  who  turned  me  out  of  the  Opera 
House.  I  shall  never  forget  their  kindness." 

"  They  did  not  understand  you.  And  musical 
people  are  always  jealous.  I  have  never  yet  dis- 
covered a  musician  who  believed  that  other  mu- 
sicians were  possible.  La  musique,  c'est  moi. 
That  is  their  motto.  You  will  be  a  great  singer 
some  day,  and  Yienna  will  open  its  arms  to  you. 
I  shall  be  there  ;  I  shall  applaud  you." 


180  FfiO 

"Thunder-claps — what  a  noise  you  would 
make!  Jerome  must  know  of  your  promise. 
Your  dearest  friend,  whom  you  love  as  your  own 
brother,  you  will  let  him  come  to  hear  me,  I  sup- 
pose ?  " 

Again  he  looked  at  her  closely.  The  frivolity 
of  her  talk  was  a  little  disquieting.  He  set  it 
down  to  anxiety.  But  he  was  not  sorry  when 
the  carriage  stopped  presently  in  the  courtyard 
of  the  station,  and  a  man  with  a  lantern  came 
out  to  light  them  to  the  platform. 

"  We  are  at  Boveresse,"  he  said,  opening  the 
door  quickly.  "  There  will  be  no  other  passen- 
gers, for  the  night  mail  does  not  stop  here  as  a 
rule.  I  am  sure  you  will  be  sensible,  and  do  as 
I  bid  you." 

"  You  tire  me,"  was  her  answer ;  "  please  get 
out." 

He  gave  her  his  hand,  and  she  jumped  lightly 
to  the  pavement.  It  was  almost  dark  then.  She 
could  see  the  hovering  peaks,  which  towered  up 
behind  the  little  station  as  great  looming  shad- 
ows of  the  night.  A  few  lamps  twinkled  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  railway.  There  were  no  strangers 
about  the  door  of  the  Gare;  but  the  station- 
master  greeted  Lamberg  as  though  he  had  been 
expecting  him,  and  the  man  from  the  box  of  the 
brougham  followed  them  to  the  platform. 

"  It's  a  poor  place,  but  there  is  a  little  waiting- 


THE  ROAD  TO  NEUFCHATEL      181 

room,"  said  Lamberg  anxiously,  as  he  conducted 
her  through  the  bureau.  "  I  expect  the  train  in 
a  quarter  of  an  hour.  We  shall  find  rugs  for 
you  from  somewhere,  and  I  will  lend  you  a  cape. 
The  nights  can  be  cold  even  in  June.  "We  must 
not  let  you  suffer  any  inconvenience,  Miss  Feo." 
She  did  not  answer  him.  Far  out  in  the  valley 
below,  she  could  see  a  great  patch  of  light,  as  a 
lake  of  fire  in  the  heart  of  a  desolate  country. 
And  thither  her  eyes  turned,  to  the  west  and  the 
open  country  and  the  last  glory  of  the  day.  For 
there  was  the  Chateau  de  Joux,  and  in  that 
house  Jerome  was  waiting  for  her. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

FOB   FREEDOM 

JEROME  was  waiting,  but  would  wait  in 
vain,  she  said.  This  new  humiliation,  which  her 
love  had  put  upon  her,  compelled  her  to  the  de- 
termination that,  whatever  befell,  she  would  go 
back  to  him  no  more.  It  was  as  though  she  be- 
came conscious  upon  that  instant,  of  a  mistake 
which,  in  its  result,  was  little  less  than  a  crime. 
All  her  latent  pride  asserted  itself,  and  would 
not  be  denied.  The  events  of  recent  days  had 
warred  subtly  upon  her  logic ;  but  this  awaken- 
ing permitted  her  to  judge  of  them  and  to  per- 
ceive the  falsity  of  her  reasoning.  To  scheme, 
to  plot,  to  hide  herself  from  the  world,  to  be 
ashamed  in  order  that  she  might  become  the 
wife  of  a  man  who  loved  her,  appeared  to  her 
now,  not  in  the  light  of  self-abnegation  and  self- 
sacrifice,  but  as  the  sordid  actions  of  an  intriguer. 
So  the  world  would  judge  her,  she  thought.  She 
wondered  that  she  could  have  been  so  misled; 
she  was  almost  grateful  for  this  possibility  of 

182 


FOR  FREEDOM  183 

respite.  The  shame  of  her  position  became  in- 
tolerable. 

A  prisoner,  to  be  called  adventuress  by  those 
who  willed  it,  to  be  the  scorn  of  any  tattler, 
branded  as  a  dangerous  woman  who  must  be 
banished  from  France,  the  punishment  of  her 
folly  seemed  more  than  she  could  bear.  The 
journey  before  her  must  be  the  ultimate  insult, 
she  thought.  No  felon  could  have  been  watched 
more  closely  or  guarded  so  surely.  The  impulse 
to  escape  her  gaolers  grew  upon  her  minute 
by  minute.  She  knew  that  she  would  risk  her 
own  life  gladly  to  win  that  freedom  which 
had  never  stood  for  so  much  to  her  as  during 
those  moments  of  waiting  in  the  little  room  at 
Boveresse. 

There  were  two  windows  in  this  salle  d?attente 
—one  looking  out  upon  the  platform,  the  other 
showing  her  the  bare  station-yard  and  the  car- 
riage which  had  brought  her.  Though  the  man 
tried  to  conceal  himself  from  her  view,  she  per- 
ceived a  gendarme  hiding  behind  the  porch  of 
the  bureau ;  and  on  the  other  side,  quite  close  to 
the  door,  there  stood  the  fellow  who  had  passed 
for  a  footman  and  driven  with  them  from  the 
chateau.  The  hopelessness  of  her  position  be- 
came clearer  to  her  as  she  watched  these  men. 
If  the  French  Government  did,  in  truth,  give 
a  tacit  support  to  the  Austrian's  actions,  then, 


184:  FfiO 

indeed,  was  her  dream  of  escape  a  folly.  Who 
would  help  her  in  the  great  station  at  Pontarlier, 
or  listen  to  her  while  she  was  on  French  soil  ? 
Leslie  Drummond  must  be  in  London  again  by 
this  time.  The  very  name  of  her  own  city  could 
conjure  up  pictures  of  darkness  and  gloom.  In 
thirty  hours  she  would  be  there  again,  penniless 
and  friendless.  The  idea  of  returning  to  the 
old  life,  of  serving  her  father  in  his  lethargy  of 
selfishness  and  complaint,  was  not  to  be  sup- 
ported. She  must  win  her  own  way  now ;  must 
stand  truly  alone,  as  in  reality  she  had  been 
during  so  many  long  years  of  her  unattaining 
life. 

This  was  her  reasoning  as  she  stood  at  the 
windows  of  the  dusty  room  and  looked  out  upon 
the  vista  of  twinkling  red  lights,  of  hills  tower- 
ing above  the  shining  rails,  of  a  great  cutting 
through  the  cliff  and  a  tunnel  beyond.  "Would 
the  express  never  come?  she  asked.  It  was  a 
degradation  surpassing  words  to  pace  that  apart- 
ment and  to  tell  herself  that  she  was  as  a  caged 
animal,  imprisoned  there  for  all  the  world  to  see. 
Her  anger  against  Lamberg  became  a  passion  of 
self-reproach  and  lament,  when  she  had  the 
leisure  to  debate  it.  She  had  given  him  this  op- 
portunity; she  allowed  nothing  to  such  consid- 
eration as  he  had  shown  her.  She  would  not  see 
that  the  platform  was  deserted ;  that  no  one  save 


FOR  FREEDOM  185 

her  gaolers  had  been  admitted  to  the  station. 
In  her  imagination  all  France  gazed  through 
that  open  window.  When  a  porter  came  and 
stood  there,  she  could  have  struck  him  in  the 
face.  She  did  not  know  that  he  alone  could  be 
of  service  to  her. 

"  Mademoiselle,  mademoiselle — a  moment." 
She  heard  him  address  her  as  he  pretended  to 
be  pasting  a  bill  to  one  of  the  boards  hanging 
near  the  window ;  but  her  only  answer  was  to 
turn  her  back  upon  him.  The  idea  of  sympathy 
at  such  a  moment,  and  from  such  a  source,  was 
a  humiliation  surpassing  all  others  of  the  night. 
A  blow,  a  threat,  an  oath — those  would  have 
been  more  in  keeping  with  that  temper  which 
for  the  first  time  had  almost  robbed  her  of  her 
self-control. 

"  Mademoiselle,  mademoiselle —  I  am  Cesar's 
brother." 

The  words  were  spoken  almost  in  a  whisper ; 

but  now  she  turned  quickly  and  stared  at  the 

man.     He  was  an  uncouth,  shaggy-headed  pay- 

san  •  nevertheless,  as  he  stood  there  beneath  the 

lamp  she  recognised  a  certain  likeness  to  Cesar, 

the  coachman  at  the  chateau.     The  man  himself, 

looking  round  carefully,  to  be  sure  that  none 

heard  him,  repeated  the  words  — 

"I  am  Cesar's  brother,  mademoiselle." 

"  Well,"  she  asked  quickly,  "  and  what  then  ?  " 


186  FfiO 

"  I  cannot  help  you ;  it  is  not  in  my  power, — 
but  I  know,  mademoiselle " 

He  stopped  abruptly.  The  man  guarding  the 
door  of  the  salle,  which  he  had  left  to  exchange 
a  word  with  Lamberg,  came  back  quickly.  The 
porter  continued  to  paste  up  his  bill  with  an  ex- 
cellent imitation  of  stupidity. 

"The  express  is  just  coming,  m'sieu.  I  have 
been  telling  mademoiselle " 

"  You  should  learn  to  hold  your  tongue. 
Come,  get  about  your  business ;  my  luggage  is 
waiting." 

The  porter  slouched  away,  grumbling.  Feo, 
forgetting  her  train  of  thought  as  she  asked  her- 
self what  he  had  wished  to  say  to  her,  came  out 
upon  the  platform ;  for  the  express  was  in  sight, 
they  told  her.  She  could  hear  it  approaching 
now — a  mere  echo  at  first,  as  of  distant  thunder, 
then  a  deafening  roar,  magnifying  ever  in  the 
ravine  to  terrible  sounds,  as  of  great  rocks  crash- 
ing down  from  the  heights  above.  Presently  its 
head-lights  flashed  out,  and  the  engine  seemed 
to  leap  down  upon  the  station ;  the  ravine  was 
iridescent  with  the  glow  from  the  windows  of 
the  carriages ;  white  steam  hissed  and  showered 
in  the  warm  air ;  there  was  a  glimpse  of  driver 
and  fireman,  their  faces  outstanding  in  the  deep 
light  of  the  furnace ;  people  appeared  at  the 
doors  of  the  carriages ;  others  lay  at  full  length 


FOR  FREEDOM  187 

upon  the  seats,  or  were  reading,  or  rousing  them- 
selves to  know  why  the  train  stopped.  Then 
Feo  heard  Lamberg's  voice,  and  she  followed  him 
to  the  carriage  without  a  word. 

"  Here  is  our  compartment,  mademoiselle." 

It  was  an  ordinary  first-class  carriage,  and  it 
had  been  reserved  for  them  at  Neufchatel.  She 
was  surprised  to  see  that  Lamberg  alone  was  to 
be  her  companion ;  but  she  did  not  confess  her 
surprise  to  him.  It  was  amusing,  she  said,  that 
he  should  take  so  much  thought  for  her  comfort. 
Rugs,  pillows,  books,  a  little  lamp  for  her  to  read 
by,  a  box  of  sweets — one  by  one  he  handed  these 
things  into  the  carriage. 

"  We  shall  dine  at  Pontarlier,"  he  explained : 
"  I  wish  it  could  be  before ;  but  here  are  some 
cakes,  if  you  are  hungry." 

She  thanked  him  with  a  word,  and  crossed 
the  compartment  to  lower  the  other  glass. 
They  had  left  the  carriage  in  the  sun  all  day, 
and  the  stuffiness  of  it  was  intolerable.  It 
needed  an  effort  to  breathe ;  she  sank  into 
the  corner  seat  and  fanned  herself  with  a  news- 
paper. 

All  the  paraphernalia  of  travel  had  been  ar- 
ranged now.  Lamberg  himself  was  on  the  plat- 
form giving  the  station-master  final  instructions. 
Whatever  hope  Feo  had  indulged  in — a  hope  that 
her  friends  at  the  chateau  might  yet  follow  after 


188  FfiO 

—was  to  be  thought  of  no  more.  They  were 
about  to  start ;  she  could  see  the  guard  signalling 
to  the  engine-driver ;  a  man  blew  a  tin  trumpet ; 
the  shaggy-headed  porter  sprang  up  on  her  side 
of  the  carriage  and  turned  a  key  in  the  lock. 
They  feared,  then,  that  she  would  do  something 
foolish.  Yet  was  it  so  ?  Certainly  the  porter's 
behaviour  was  very  strange.  He  nodded  and 
made  a  signal  to  her.  As  in  an  inspiration  she 
read  his  message.  He  was  not  locking  the  door, 
but  unlocking  it. 

The  vision  of  an  instant,  the  act  of  a  man  who 
sprang  to  the  footboard  and  leaped  down  again 
almost  before  his  name  could  have  been  uttered 
twice.  Lamberg  himself,  in  close  talk  with  the 
station-master,  saw  nothing  of  the  act  or  the  doer. 
The  train  began  to  move  slowly  from  the  plat- 
form. To  Feo  the  moment  was  as  the  very  crisis 
of  her  life.  The  door  was  unlocked,  she  repeated  ; 
beyond  it  lay  freedom.  And  she  must  not  delay. 
One  by  one  the  station  lights  disappeared  from 
her  view.  She  heard  that  sudden  ebb  of  sound 
which  spoke  of  the  open  country  lying  between 
Boveresse  and  the  gorge  of  the  mountains.  Once 
more  she  looked  out  over  the  lone  valley  where 
the  twinkling  stars  could  send  such  a  message  of 
home  and  love  and  joy  of  the  night.  Jerome 
was  waiting  for  her  where  those  lights  shone  out, 
she  said. 


FOE  FREEDOM  189 

And  so  she  took  her  resolution,  and,  caring 
nothing  save  for  that  freedom  she  desired  so 
ardently,  she  opened  the  door  and  leaped  blindly 
from  the  train. 


CHAPTEK  XXII 

THE   RING   OF  HOOFS 

IT  was  a  blind  leap,  out  into  the  darkness. 
Though  the  train  had  not,  at  that  time,  gathered 
any  great  velocity,  Feo  had  the  sensation  of  being 
thrown  forward  as  upon  a  buoyant  breeze,  which 
lifted  her  for  the  moment,  and  then,  dying  away, 
flung  her  heavily  to  the  earth.  Lights  flashed 
in  her  eyes — the  lights  of  the  carriages  which 
towered  above  her — she  was  dazed,  breathless ; 
yet  never  once  did  panic  rob  her  of  the  power  to 
think  and  act.  Freedom  !  she  had  won  it,  then  ! 
A  little  pain,  a  sense  of  numbness  in  her  limbs, 
above  all  the  question,  "  Could  she  stand  ?  "  were 
first  to  trouble  her.  But  the  imminence  of  the 
peril  prevailed  above  them.  They  would  stop 
the  express ;  men  would  come  out  from  the  sta- 
tion with  lanterns.  She  staggered  to  her  feet, 
driven  on  by  the  danger ;  and  forgetting  all,  she 
laughed  aloud  because  she  could  walk  again. 

She  had  fallen  upon  the  soft  grass  which  bor- 
dered the  line,  and  to  this  she  owed  her  life. 
Young  limbs  had  befriended  her  well  that  night. 

190 


THE  KING  OF  HOOFS  191 

Though  her  pretty  white  dress  was  torn  from  the 
shoulder  to  the  waist,  and  she  had  lost  her  hat, 
and  her  right  hand  was  bleeding,  and  her  ankle 
very  painful,  she  cared  nothing  for  misfortunes 
so  trivial. 

Far  away  now,  in  the  gorge  of  the  hills,  she 
could  see  the  red  lamp  of  the  vanished  train. 
Lamberg  had  not  stopped  it,  then.  Or  was  he 
afraid  to  stop  it,  lest  his  story  should  be  heard  by 
every  passenger  ?  She  said  that  it  was  a  trouble- 
some question,  to  be  answered  at  her  leisure. 

Down  below  her,  thirty  feet  or  more,  was  the 
white  road  which  led  to  the  chateau.  She  must 
gain  that  road  before  the  news  passed — must  seek 
the  refuge  of  some  lonely  house.  Whatever  be- 
fell, her  moments  of  respite  would  be  few.  In 
the  end  the  express  would  be  warned,  and  would 
return. 

Such  conclusions  drove  her  on  apprehensively. 
She  crossed  the  shining  rails,  and  looked  down  at 
the  path  whereby  safety  lay.  A  carriage  passed 
the  place  where  she  stood,  the  carriage  in  which 
she  had  been  driven  to  the  station.  There  was 
no  longer  a  second  man  upon  the  box  of  it,  and 
he,  she  imagined,  was  in  the  express  which  should 
have  taken  her  to  Paris.  The  assurance  gave  her 
courage.  Those  at  Boveresse  could  have  no  in- 
terest in  her  misfortune ;  the  Countess's  name, 
when  she  could  utter  it,  must  befriend  her.  She 


192  FfiO 

determined  to  appeal  to  the  sympathy  of  the  first 
stranger  she  met ;  and  despite  her  resolution,  to 
send  word  to  the  chateau.  That  much  she  owed 
to  her  friends  and  to  her  own  necessity. 

Until  this  moment  she  had  been  able  to  think 
and  act  at  her  will.  There  were  no  lights  in  the 
station  now  that  the  express  had  set  out  for 
Paris.  From  the  hamlet  itself  there  came  no 
sound  of  life  or  movement.  Once  she  thought 
that  she  heard  a  distant  locomotive  whistling 
shrilly  in  the  mountains,  and  this  frightened  her ; 
but  the  signal  was  not  repeated,  and  she  took 
heart  again. 

On  the  road  below,  the  black  brougham  passed 
slowly  by ;  she  feared  to  leave  the.  shelter  of  the 
embankment  until  the  carriage  disappeared  from 
her  sight.  Nor  did  she  forget,  as  she  crouched 
beside  a  great  boulder  and  rested  her  aching 
head  "upon  her  hands,  that  her  friends  at  the 
chateau  might  even  then  be  seeking  her. 

If  Jerome  came  to  Boveresse !  The  weakness 
of  her  womanhood  asserted  itself  in  the  silence 
and  the  pain  of  those  moments.  There  were 
tears  in  her  eyes  when  at  last  she  could  admit 
that  the  road  was  hers,  and  that  she  must  follow 
it  without  delay. 

The  embankment  was  steep  and  stony,  rough 
grass  knitting  together  the  great  boulders  of  grey 
rock  which  were  its  strength.  At  any  other 


gstc^sr?,-        "-        ^^V-^*3^     y-       - 
'  ,   -  ~^»    "      •          *^?f-  ,?\r.--/y— yj  -         , 

•i.  -        *1          .•  .'     ;  \  •• 


THE  RING  OF  HOOFS  193 

time,  the  perilous  descent  would  have  frightened 
her ;  but  the  darkness  of  the  night,  and  the 
knowledge  how  short  those  instants  of  respite 
must  be,  quickened  her  nerve  and  steadied  her 
foot.  Step  by  step  she  went  down,  halting  often 
to  cling  to  bush  or  stone ;  despairing  sometimes 
of  success;  buoyed  up  again  by  the  assurance 
that  the  express  had  not  been  stopped. 

Already  she  had  accomplished  the  half  of  her 
journey,  and  no  one  had  passed  along  the  de- 
serted road.  A  few  more  steps,  she  said,  and 
the  chateau  would  be  in  sight.  She  had  taken 
one,  when  a  voice,  speaking  from  the  darkness, 
arrested  her  abruptly. 

"  Mademoiselle !  mademoiselle  !  " 

She  leant  back  against  the  rock,  panting.  The 
impulse  to  cry  out  for  help  was  conquered  with 
difficulty.  Then  she  began  to  laugh  at  herself. 
The  man,  who  had  spoken,  was  the  shaggy-headed 
porter  from  the  station. 

"Mademoiselle,  you  are  there,  then.  I  am 
Cesar's  brother,  mademoiselle." 

"Give  me  your  arm,"  she  said  quickly.  "I 
have  hurt  my  ankle,  and  cannot  walk." 

He  appeared  suddenly  from  the  rails  above. 

"Well,"  he  cried,  "you  have  pluck,  mademoi- 
selle, to  come  down  here  alone  !  " 

"I  must  reach  the  chateau  to-night.  If  you 
will  help  me,  you  shall  be  well  rewarded." 


194  FfiO 

"  Do  not  speak  of  such  a  thing.  I  knew  that 
you  would  jump,  mademoiselle.  '  She  has  cour- 
age,' I  said.  And  the  Austrian  rat  has  gone  on 
alone  ?  Bravo ! " 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  maladroitly,  as  one 
unaccustomed  to  the  care  of  an  object  so  fragile. 
Her  pallor  frightened  him.  She  was  going  to 
die,  he  thought. 

"  Be  careful,  mademoiselle.  You  are  in  pain  ; 
I  can  see  it.  You  suffer,  mademoiselle  ?  " 

She  laughed. 

"  My  hand  is  cut  and  my  ankle  is  sprained.  If 
you  don't  help  me  quickly,  the  train  will  come 
back." 

He  was  about  to  protest  that  they  would  not 
stop  the  Paris  mail  for  twenty  Austrians,  when 
a  short,  sharp  whistle  echoed  in  the  gorge,  and 
a  moment  later  the  express  itself  appeared,  back- 
ing slowly  into  the  station. 

"  Hush,  mademoiselle !  They  have  come  back, 
then.  For  God's  sake  do  not  speak  a  word." 

She  lay  against  the  rock,  trembling  as  .with 
an  ague.  The  express  passed  slowly  over  the 
embankment  above.  There  were  faces  at  the 
windows  of  the  carriages ;  the  guard  rode  upon 
the  footboard  of  his  van,  and  searched  the  track 
with  his  lantern. 

"  What  news  ?  "  asked  the  porter,  standing  up 
boldly  where  all  could  see  him. 


THE  EIKG  OF  HOOFS  195 

"  A  young  lady  has  fallen  out  of  the  train.  "We 
are  looking  for  her." 

"  You  have  come  to  the  wrong  place,  my  boy. 
I  am  just  from  the  station,  and  there  is  no  one 
here."  . 

"  Then  go  and  look  on  the  other  side,  flat-head. 
Come,  be  quick ;  we  cannot  wait  here  all  night." 

The  guard  continued  to  wave  the  engine  back 
towards  the  station.  It  travelled  at  a  snail's 
pace,  and  the  excitement  of  those  within  the 
carriages  increased  with  every  beat  of  the 
cylinder. 

"  It  would  be  about  here,  monsieur.  She  can- 
not be  alive,  or  she  would  speak  to  us.  If  she  is 
dead,  we  shall  find  her." 

The  stupendously  clever  observations  of  the 
multitude  were  heard  at  intervals. 

Lamberg  himself  stood  at  the  open  door  of  his 
compartment,  his  glass  in  his  eye,  a  supercilious 
smile  upon  his  face.  The  girl  could  not  escape 
him,  he  thought.  She  had  been  very  foolish,  and 
he  was  sorry  for  her.  He  would  tell  her  so  when 
she  was  found.  If  she  were  dead,  so  much  the 
better;  if  she  were  not  dead,  he  would  make  it 
his  business  to  see  that  both  doors  were  locked 
next  time. 

Feo  could  hear  his  voice  as  he  asked  the  guard 
a  question,  and  was  answered  none  too  civilly. 
The  officials  resented  the  delay  ;  they  would  not 


196  FfiO 

have  tolerated  it  but  for  the  authority  which  he 
carried. 

"They  will  come  along  presently  with  lan- 
terns, mademoiselle,"  said  the  porter,  when  the 
engine  had  gone  by  and  was  almost  at  the  sta- 
tion. "  If  you  do  not  wish  to  be  found  here,  you 
must  permit  me  to  carry  you." 

She  stood  up  with  an  effort  which  cost  her 
pain. 

"  What  is  the  good  of  talking  like  that  ?  "  she 
exclaimed  impatiently.  "  Am  I  to  dig  a  hole  in 
the  ground  and  hide  in  it  ?  " 

"  But  they  are  coming  from  the  Gare,  made- 
moiselle ;  you  can  see  their  lanterns." 

He  pointed  to  the  station  behind  them.  Little 
flakes  of  fire  seemed  dropping  from  the  embank- 
ment to  the  rocks  below.  They  could  hear 
men's  voices  and  answering  cries  from  the 
heights  above. 

"  You  see,  mademoiselle " 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  what  do  you  want  me  to 
do  ?  Where  shall  I  go ?  " 

"  There  is  a  hut  on  the  other  side  of  the  road  ; 
the  employes  keep  their  tools  in  it.  I  have  the 
key,  mademoiselle.  Come,  I  shall  carry  you 
well  enough." 

He  picked  her  up  in  his  trained  arms  as  though 
she  had  been  a  child,  and  almost  leaping  from 
rock  to  rock,  he  gained  the  foot  of  the  en  bank- 


THE  "RING  OF  HOOFS  197 

ment.  She  could  distinguish  the  hut  from  that 
place — a  little  building  of  wood  with  a  tarred 
roof. 

They  crossed  the  road  together,  darting  from 
side  to  side  as  hares  disturbed  in  their  sleeping- 
places.  She  did  not  feel  any  pain  at  the  mo- 
ment, for  the  excitement  of  mind  prevailed  above 
it ;  but  when  the  man  had  pushed  her  into  the 
hut,  and  locked  the  door  behind  her,  she  sank 
down  in  agony  intolerable. 

"  Keep  up  your  courage,  mademoiselle.  They 
will  not  come  here ;  I  shall  see  to  that.  If  any 
one  knocks,  remember  that  it  will  be  Cesar's 
brother." 

She  could  hear  his  receding  footsteps,  and 
anon,  his  voice  when  he  hailed  the  search-party 
then  scouring  the  embankment  as  those  who 
look  for  money  by  a  lantern's  light. 

It  was  so  dark  in  the  hut  that  she  could  not 
see  where  the  door  stood.  At  her  back  she  felt 
a  bundle  of  sticks.  The  earth  upon  which  she 
crouched  was  rough  to  the  hand,  as  though  with 
the  remaining  ashes  of  a  fire. 

But  her  thoughts  were  without.  They  could 
not  pass  by  that  place,  she  reasoned.  Lamberg 
would  insist  upon  it  being  searched. 

Again  and  again  she  distinguished  his  voice  as 
he  urged  the  officials  to  diligence  or  forbade  the 
express  to  proceed. 


198 

"When  the  clamour  at  last  died  away,  and  the 
tension  of  the  scene  relaxed,  she  remembered  her 
hurt,  and  wondered  how  she  would  limp  to  safety 
even  if  opportunity  came. 

Silence,  absolute,  unbroken,  reigned  for  many 
minutes.  She  began  to  tell  herself  that  the 
search  was  indeed  abandoned,  when  some  one 
pushed  so  roughly  at  the  door  of  the  hut,  that 
the  whole  structure  threatened  to  topple  down 
upon  her.  The  end  had  come,  she  thought.  So 
much  had  she  dared  to  contrive  this  pitiful 
ending. 

"  The  door  is  locked,  you  say.  Then  go  and 
get  the  key." 

Lamberg's  voice  was  unmistakable.  He  stood 
at  the  door  now,  and  his  presence  could  make 
her  tremble  again.  When  her  friend,  the  porter, 
answered  him,  she  dared  to  breathe  once  more. 

"  The  key  is  at  the  house  of  the  ganger,  mon- 
sieur. He  would  be  asleep  at  this  time.  There 
can  be  no  one  in  that  place ;  it  has  been  locked 
all  day." 

"When  I  wish  for  your  opinions,  I  will  ask 
for  them.  You  heard  me  tell  you  to  get  the 
key?" 

"  At  your  service,  monsieur.  If  you  want  the 
key,  I  will  go  and  get  it.  But  do  not  forget  that 
there  are  other  places — Bergot's  Wood  and  the 
farm  buildings  there." 


THE  RING  OF  HOOFS  199 

"  Ha !  there  is  a  farm,  then  ?  Is  it  far  from 
here  ?  " 

"It  is  just  there,  where  you  can  see  a  light 
between  the  trees,  monsieur." 

"  Very  well,  I  will  go  there.  You  will  have 
the  key  and  be  here  with  it  when  I  return." 

A  sound  of  quick  steps  followed  upon  the 
argument. 

Feo  had  risen  in  her  excitement,  and  now 
stood,  breathing  quickly,  against  the  door  of  the 
hut.  The  darkness  of  the  place  oppressed  her 
strangely. 

"  Take  heart,  mademoiselle.  I  shall  not  find 
the  key.  And  I  hear  wheels." 

"  The  place  suffocates  me,"  she  answered.  "  I 
cannot  stop  here." 

"  Hush,  mademoiselle  !  there  is  some  one  com- 
ing." 

She  listened  intently.  Mingled  voices  were  to 
be  heard  without,  but  above  the  words  she  could 
distinguish  a  sound  which  was  as  music  to  her 
ears.  A  carriage  approached  upon  the  road 
from  Pontarlier.  The  ring  of  hoofs,  telling  of 
a  horse  hard  pressed,  became  clearer  every  in- 
stant. When  the  sound  ceased  suddenly,  the 
reaction  of  the  moment  almost  robbed  her  of  her 
strength.  She  stood,  dazed  and  helpless,  to  watch 
the  door  swing  back,  and  to  shield  her  eyes  from 
the  blinding  rays  of  the  porter's  lantern. 


200  FfiO 

"  This  way,  monsieur.     Mademoiselle  is  here." 
There  were  many  faces  at  the  door.     She  saw 
but  one.     It  was  the  face  of  Jerome;  and  re- 
membering her  courage,  she  in  turn  raised  a 
laughing  face  to  his. 

"  It  could  have  been  no  one  else,"  she  said ; 
and  with  that  she  fell  fainting  into  his  arms. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  INSULT 

HE  had  driven  from  the  chateau  in  a  dog-cart, 
with  two  grooms  to  aid  the  search.  The  officials 
at  the  station,  recognising  the  livery  of  Madame 
la  Comtesse,  made  way  for  him  respectfully. 
The  shaggy-headed  porter,  who  had  won  so  great 
a  victory,  stood  blinking  with  delight  as  this 
masterful  fellow  gave  his  orders  masterfully. 

It  was  the  work  of  a  moment  to  lift  Feo  to 
the  cart,  and  to  wrap  the  heavy  rug  about  her. 
"Where  ten  of  those,  who  looked  on,  had  been 
ready  to  hunt  her  down  a  few  minutes  ago,  there 
were  twenty  now  willing  to  declare  that  her  wel- 
fare alone  concerned  them. 

"  Ah,  the  brave  !  She  leaped  from  the  train, 
monsieur.  He  said  that  he  had  authority,  and 
I  believed  him.  I  am  a  fool,  monsieur,  and  I 
apologise.  Mademoiselle  is  very  pale ;  I  fear  she 
suffers.  There  is  brandy  at  the  station,  if  you 
wish  it,  monsieur." 

So  they  came  crowding  about  the  cart ;  but 
Jerome  did  not  hear  them.  He  knew  something 

201 


202  FfiO 

of  surgery,  and  was  already  making  sure  that  no 
bones  were  broken.  The  wan,  white  face  ap- 
pealed to  him  as  it  had  never  appealed  before  in 
the  finest  moments  of  his  love ;  but  he  went  to 
work  as  one  indifferent. 

"  She  has  hurt  her  ankle  ;  I  do  not  think  that 
there  is  anything  else.  The  fresh  air  is  better 
than  brandy,  thank  you.  Let  the  seat  be  moved 
back  a  little  ;  it  will  give  her  room.  I  am  taking 
her  to  the  chateau.  You  will  tell  that  to  any 
one  who  asks  you." 

Deliberately  still,  he  settled  himself  in  his  seat 
and  took  the  reins.  The  villagers,  some  raising 
lanterns,  some  continuing  to  offer  their  apologies, 
drew  back  to  let  the  horse  go. 

A  start  was  being  made,  when  Lamberg  him- 
self stepped  from  the  shadow  to  the  road,  and 
laid  a  hand  upon  the  bridle  rein. 

"  I  must  speak  to  you,"  he  said. 

Jerome  looked  at  him  for  an  instant  as  at  some 
peasant  who  had  dared  a  childish  insult.  Then 
he  raised  his  whip  and  slashed  him  heavily  across 
the  face. 

"  There  is  a  subject  to  discuss,"  he  said  quietly. 
"  I  am  at  the  Chateau  de  Joux  if  you  wish  to 
pursue  it." 

The  man's  hand  fell  from  the  rein,  but  he  did 
not  flinch  at  the  blow.  That  supercilious  smile, 
which  served  him  alike  for  victory  or  defeat,  was 


THE  INSULT  203 

his  answer  to  the  act.  He  smiled  still  when  the 
horse,  impatient  of  control,  bounded  forward  at 
a  gallop  upon  the  road  to  Pontarlier.  At  the 
gorge's  head  Jerome  could  still  see  him  standing 
motionless  in  the  midst  of  the  affrighted  villagers. 
To-morrow  he  would  send  his  friends  to  the 
chateau.  It  was  well  that  he  should  do  so. 
They  had  been  fighting  in  the  dark  too  long  al- 
ready ;  a  little  daylight  would  be  good. 

This  was  the  younger  man's  first  thought  as  he 
checked  the  good  horse  to  a  fast  trot,  and  began 
to  remember  Feo's  need.  She  had  swooned  at 
the  door  of  the  hut ;  but  her  faintness  had  been 
momentary ;  and  now  the  cool  night  air,  blowing 
fresh  upon  her  face,  proved  a  better  tonic  than 
any  he  could  have  prescribed.  They  had  not 
driven  the  third  part  of  a  mile  before  she 
sought  to  release  herself  from  the  arm  which 
held  her,  and  to  speak  to  him  of  all  that  had 
happened. 

"  You  cannot  drive  like  that,"  she  said,  with  a 
brave  attempt  to  make  light  of  it ;  "  besides, 
there  is  no  excuse." 

For  answer  he  reined  in  the  horse  and  took  a 
flask  of  brandy  from  his  pocket. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  I  am  the  physician  at  pres- 
ent, and  I  prescribe  this.  One  tablespoonful  to 
be  taken  immediately." 

She  made  a  little  grimace,  but  did  as  he  wished. 


204  FfiO 

Unaccustomed  to  stimulant,  the  spirit  brought 
the  blood  to  her  cheeks  and  warmth  to  her 
limbs. 

"  There,"  she  said,  "  I  am  the  model  of  obedi- 
ence." 

He  let  the  horse  go  again.  He  still  had  his 
arm  about  her,  and  he  drew  her  close  to  him. 

"Is  this  part  of  the  treatment,  too?"  she 
asked. 

"Brandy  is  a  very  good  thing  as  far  as  it 
goes,  but  it  doesn't  go  far  enough.  I  expect  you 
will  feel  all  this  to-morrow.  I  wonder  how 
many  women  would  have  had  the  courage  to  do 
what  you  did.  If  I  had  known,  I  don't  think  I 
could  have  driven  over." 

"  But  as  it  is " 

"  As  it  is,  I  say,  thank  God." 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  did  not  know,"  she  an- 
swered simply. 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  on  the  lips. 

"  Thank  God,  thank  God  it  was  no  worse,  lit- 
tle Feo,"  he  exclaimed ;  and  heart  and  love  for 
her  were  to  be  read  in  his  voice.  It  was  the 
first  word  of  affection  he  had  spoken  since  he 
found  her. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  did  not  know,"  she  re- 
peated; "though,  if  I  confessed  all,  I  should 
tell  that  I  did  not  mean  to  return  to  the  chateau 
at  all." 


THE  INSULT  205 

"  Not  return — then  where  would  you  have  gone 
to?" 

"I  don't  know.  Oh,  cannot  you  see  what  a 
humiliation  all  this  is  ?  " 

He  looked  down  at  her  white  face,  but  did  not 
wholly  grasp  her  meaning. 

"  Are  we  not  both  humiliated  ? "  he  asked 
gravely.  "  If  your  hurt  is  not  my  hurt,  what  is 
love  worth  ?  We  mustn't  talk  of  this  to-night, 
Feo.  There  will  be  many  things  to  tell  you  to- 
morrow— many  things  for  you  to  hear  and  for 
me  to  do.  At  present  I  cannot  think  about 
them.  I  am  too  anxious,  and  an  anxious  man  is 
never  a  good  doctor,  whatever  the  matter  may 
be.  I  am  going  to  send  into  Pontarlier  for  the 
best  surgeon  in  the  place,  and  when  he  has  seen 
you,  it  will  be  time  enough  to  look  at  the  other 
side  of  our  picture.  Can't  you  understand  how 
anxious  I  am,  Feo  ?  " 

She  answered  him  in  a  whisper,  a  word  that  he 
wished.  Then  she  closed  her  eyes  and  tried  to 
forget  where  she  was,  and  all  that  had  brought 
about  that  night  of  nights.  The  moon  shone 
now,  clear  and  white  upon  the  lonely  road.  You 
could  see  the  hamlets  in  the  near  valley  as 
clusters  of  lights  to  be  pricked  off  upon  a  dark- 
ened chart.  The  peaks  above  the  great  domed 
hills  began  to  stand  out  of  the  rolling  vapours, 
and  to  lift  black  shapes  to  the  world  of  glittering 


206  FlilO 

stars.  That  sense  of  rest,  and  of  peace  enduring, 
which  she  had  desired  so  ardently,  was  hers  in 
that  moment.  She  realised  again,  as  once  she 
had  realised  before,  that  all  her  hope  of  life  lay 
in  her  lover's  keeping. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  exclaimed  suddenly, "  were  you 
not  surprised  ?  " 

"  Not  altogether.  I  expected  something  of  the 
sort.  When  we  drove  in,  and  they  said  that  you 
had  been  to  the  gate  but  had  not  returned,  I 
thought  of  our  old  friend  Lamberg  at  once. 
Then  Michel,  the  gardener,  was  there  with  his 
story  of  a  strange  carriage  on  the  road  to 
Neufchatel.  I  did  not  wait  for  any  more. 
Madame,  of  course,  struck  an  attitude,  and 
wanted  to  send  for  the  soldiers.  Little  Victorine 
wept.  That  was  honest  at  least." 

"  And  you " 

"  Oh,  I  ordered  the  dog-cart ! " 

He  said  no  more,  for  the  gates  of  the  chateau 
came  in  view,  and  soon  the  welcome  sound  of 
hounds  baying,  and  of  many  voices  raised  to- 
gether, broke  upon  her  ears.  All  the  servants  of 
the  house  were  there  at  the  lodge;  but  little 
Yictorine  was  the  first  to  run  towards  the  cart ; 
and  when  she  saw  Feo,  and  Jerome  cried  to  her 
that  all  was  well,  tears  of  honest  gladness  were 
her  only  answer.  At  the  great  door  of  the  hall 
itself,  madame  stoocl  as  some  mistress  of  old  time 


THE  INSULT 


207 


to  welcome  the  fugitives.  She  had  forgotten  her 
love  for  drama  in  the  more  human  love  of  sym- 
pathy. 

"  My  child,  my  little  girl,"  she  cried  again  and 
again ;  "  oh,  I  thank  God  for  this  night !  " 

Feo  did  not  know  what  response  to  make. 
The  love  and  sympathy  overwhelmed  her.  There 
were  tears  in  her  eyes,  too  ;  but  tears  of  gratitude 
and  not  of  pain. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

SUNSHINE 

IT  was  upon  the  morning  of  the  fifth  day  after 
Feo  came  back  to  the  chateau  that  Leon  Oster, 
the  plump  little  doctor  from  Andelot,  expressed 
the  opinion  that  it  was  very  rash ;  but  gave  his 
consent,  nevertheless,  when  his  patient  wished  to 
sit  in  the  garden  tent  for  one  hour  precisely  at 
the  full  tide  of  the  noon  sun. 

"  Folly,  folly  !  "  he  had  exclaimed,  with  that 
little  gesture  of  the  hand  which  implied  a  profound 
contempt  for  all  human  weaknesses,  "  but  have 
your  own  way,  my  child.  The  world  goes  too 
fast  nowadays.  You  are  all  in  too  much  of  a 
hurry.  I  tell  you  that  bed  is  the  best  medicine 
for  you,  and  you  won't  take  it.  Have  your  own 
way,  and  if  you  die,  don't  complain  that  it  is  my 
fault." 

"  I  can't  stop  in  bed,"  she  pleaded ;  "  I  think 
of  everything  that  is  horrible  there.  It's  beauti- 
ful to  rest  when  you  can  just  shut  your  eyes  and 
say  that  nothing  matters.  I  can't  do  that,  and 
so  I  am  going  to  get  up,  doctor.  No  one  dies 

208 


SUNSHINE  209 

unless  he  means  it.  You  mustn't  be  angry,  and 
you  must  tell  them  that  I  am  quite  well." 

"  Perjury,  my  child,  rank  perjury.  If  Madame 
la  Comtesse  were  half  as  ill  as  you  are,  she 
would  have  twenty  doctors  from  Paris.  They 
would  come  here  and  drink  her  wine,  and  look 
out  of  the  window,  and  tell  us  that  it  is  a  fine 
day.  I  know  it  is  a  fine  day,  and  so  I  let  you 
go  out  into  the  garden.  Pouf — the  doctors  from 
Paris,  humbugs  all  of  them,  remember  that, 
mademoiselle ! " 

He  went  bustling  away  to  his  buggy,  which 
was  the  wonder  of  the  valley ;  and  when  he  had 
gone,  little  Yictorine  came  to  the  room  to  hear 
the  good  news.  She  nursed  an  immense  bouquet 
of  pink  roses,  and  her  words  fell  as  a  torrent. 

"  You  are  to  go  out ;  isn't  it  splendid  !  He  is  at 
Pontarlier,  but  he  will  be  back  to  dejeuner.  Aunt 
wants  to  arm  the  gardeners  with  pistols,  but 
Michel  nearly  shot  his  wife  last  night,  so  they  are 
all  to  be  taken  away  again.  Jerome  gathered 
these,  but  I  made  them  up.  You  won't  tell,  be- 
cause I  promised  that  I  wouldn't.  There  have 
been  a  lot  of  strange  men  about  the  house,  and 
ma  tante  says  they  are  detectives.  Jerome 
laughs,  because  they  are  what  the  English  call 
the  Cook's  tour.  Oh,  Feo,  you  must  come  down 
— he  does  want  you  so." 

Feo  took  the  roses  and  pressed  them  to  her 


210  FfiO 

cheek.  Every  hour  now  brought  some  new  token 
of  the  generous  love  of  those  who  had  taken  her 
to  their  home  and  made  her  as  one  of  their  own 
children.  Those  days  of  rest  had  been  the  rec- 
ompense for  long  years  of  loneliness,  for  the 
stress  and  toil  of  a  friendless  life.  They  had 
taught  her  that  affection,  asking  nothing  of  its 
gifts,  may  be  found  still  in  the  by-paths  of  the 
world. 

"  I  am  your  enfant  gdtee"  she  said  to  Victor- 
ine,  smilingly ;  "  how  glad  you  will  all  be  when 
I  am  gone !  " 

"  Jerome  will ;  of  course  he's  dying  with  im- 
patience. I  think  he's  lived  on  the  stairs  ever 
since  you  came  back.  Don't  pretend  to  know, 
because  it's  a  secret.  If  it  were  Paul,  I  should 
have  liked  it,  and  so  I  must  tell.  We're  to  have 
dejeuner  in  the  tent,  and  to-morrow  we  drive  to 
the  cascades.  Ma  tante  wants  an  escort  from 
the  barracks.  I  said  that  it  would  be  jolly  if  the 
men  were  nice — and  that  made  her  cross.  And, 
oh,  I  forgot — Cesar's  brother  has  a  big  gold 
watch.  Jerome  gave  it  to  him,  and  last  night  he 
came  back  to  ask  us  to  take  care  of  it.  He  was 
frightened  to  have  it  in  his  house.  As  if  any 
one  would  know  that  a  railway  porter  had  a 
gold  watch." 

She  gossiped  on,  helping  Feo  to  dress,  and 
promising  a  hundred  delights  for  the  hours  of 


SUNSHINE  211 

convalescence.  When  the  work  was  done,  and 
they  were  out  in  the  gardens,  they  found  madaine 
in  a  great  arm-chair  at  the  tent's  door,  and  her 
cry  of  welcome  was  spoken  from  her  very  heart. 

"  Ah,  to  see  you,  my  child,  it  is  to  see  the  sun 
again.  Every  day  I  have  been  telling  the  doctor 
that  you  were  dying  for  a  little  sunshine.  Come 
and  sit  near  me,  my  dear ;  come  and  sit  where 
all  the  world  can  look  at  you.  Let  Franpoise 
bring  the  cushions ;  the  good  God  help  me,  where 
is  Francoise  ?  " 

"  I  am  here,  madame,  at  your  elbow." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  answer  me  when  I  call 
you  ?  Am  I  to  go  and  fetch  my  own  servants 
because  I  am  a  lonely  old  woman?  Make 
mademoiselle  comfortable.  Let  Michel  know 
that  she  is  in  the  garden.  If  there  are  any 
strange  men  about,  come  and  tell  me.  Ah,  my 
child,  those  men,  those  wicked  men,  they  are 
here  every  day;  they  come  and  stare  into  the 
gardens.  I  hear  them  at  night  when  I  am 
asleep.  Is  it  not  awful  to  think  that  such  things 
are  possible,  in  our  time,  in  this  France  I  love  ?  " 

Victorine  kicked  the  grass  with  her  pretty 
foot. 

"  Don't  be  silly,  aunt ;  there  are  no  men  at  all. 
They  go  up  to  see  the  old  chateau  on  the  hill 
where  Mirabeau  was  imprisoned.  That  was  the 
man  who  cut  off  people's  heads  and  ran  away 


212  FtiO 

with  somebody  to  Holland.  It  doesn't  tell  you 
all  about  it  in  the  histories,  but  I  know.  Her 
name  was  Sophie,  and  she  didn't  mind.  I  expect 
she  lived  in  a  dark  old  house  and  never  saw  any 
one.  If  Mirabeau  were  up  there  now,  I  would 
go  and  say  to  him,  'My  name  is  Sophie,  and  I 
think  I'd  like  to  go  to  Holland.'  Wouldn't  you 
be  cross,  aunt,  when  dinner-time  came  and  I 
wasn't  down ! " 

Madame  raised  her  hands  in  a  gesture  of  woe. 

"  The  ingratitude,  the  base  ingratitude  !  You 
shall  go  back  to  the  convent,  miserable.  The 
good  God  help  me,  I  will  not  have  such  things 
said,  even  in  jest." 

"  Oh,  I  mean  it,  aunt !  And  it  would  be  jolly 
at  the  convent.  There  is  Pere  Kolot  there ;  he 
always  liked  me." 

She  ran  away  as  a  deer  across  the  soft  green 
grass,  and  they  could  hear  her  girlish  voice  pres- 
ently as  she  asked  a  hundred  questions  of  the 
postman,  who  had  just  come  up.  But  madame 
turned  to  Feo,  and  began  to  commiserate  with 
her  again. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  "if  she  would  only  learn  a 
lesson  from  you,  my  dear.  But  it's  in  the  blood  ; 
we  can't  struggle  against  that;  we  are  as  God 
made  us.  Her  father  was  a  lancer,  who  fell  at 
Worth.  Her  mother  was  the  daughter  of  a 
painter,  who  shamed  the  family  by  starving  at 


SHE  ASKED  A  HUNDRED  QUESTIONS  OK  THE  POSTMAN. 


SUNSHINE  213 

Yincennes.  You  see  the  child ;  you  see  what  I 
have  to  put  up  with.  When  you  are  well  again, 
it  will  be  different.  You  will  be  kind  to  a  poor 
old  woman,  and  she  will  be  grateful ;  she  will 
find  a  husband  for  you,  my  dear.  The  men — 
the  men — we  must  always  think  of  them,  even 
when  we  are  old,  Feo.  There  is  no  escape  ;  it  is 
our  destiny." 

"Destiny  is  very  hard  sometimes,"  said  Feo 
with  a  sigh.  "Especially  when  the  men  don't 
think  of  us.  We  rebel  because  it  is  inevitable, 
and  we  refuse  to  believe  the  truth.  To-day  you 
make  me  happy.  Yet  where  shall  I  be  when  a 
week,  a  month,  has  passed  ?  " 

"  Where  will  you  be  ?  Why,  at  the  Chateau 
de  Joux,  of  course." 

Feo  shook  her  head  doubtingly. 

"  If  my  heart  could  speak,  I  would  tell  you  of 
my  gratitude,  and  would  stay.  But  everything 
tells  me  that  I  must  go.  While  I  am  with  you, 
I  feel  that  Jerome  has  the  right  to  claim  my 
obedience.  I  cannot  give  him  that  right  any 
longer.  Whatever  happens  now,  I  will  never 
marry  him  until  his  father  consents.  If  you  find 
my  logic  hard  to  understand,  remember  that  it  is 
a  woman's  logic,  and  forgive  me.  I  have  done 
many  things  for  his  sake  since  I  left  London ;  but 
I  can  do  no  more.  I  owe  it  to  myself ;  the  least 
debt  that  I  can  pay  now  to  my  womanhood." 


214 

Madame  heard  her  quietly.  She  nodded  her 
head  as  though  she  understood  the  argument,  but 
did  not  mean  to  be  convinced  by  it. 

"  Ah ! "  she  exclaimed  at  last,  "  there  are  days 
when  we  all  talk  like  that.  I  have  been  through 
the  same  thing,  my  child,  and  I  know.  A  hun- 
dred years  ago  the  fathers  chose  the  wives,  and 
the  sons  chose  the  less  desirable  acquaintances. 
To-day,  the  sons  choose  the  wives,  and  the  fathers 
take  the  others.  If  you  were  not  a  Berthier  I 
would  not  keep  you  a  day  in  my  house.  Be 
proud  of  your  name,  my  dear;  remember  that 
your  fathers  were  once  the  friends  of  kings. 
You  talk  of  obligation.  What  obligation  can 
there  be  to  a  man  you  would  make  happy  ? 
These  people  object  to  a  marriage  because  they 
have  their  little  ends  to  gain.  They  would  find 
a  wife  for  Jerome  and  make  him  miserable  for 
the  rest  of  his  days,  because  Prince  This  wants 
the  forest  now  owned  by  Prince  That.  Our 
affections  are  our  property,  to  deal  with  them  as 
we  please.  If  they  are  not  the  gift  of  God,  then 
there  is  nothing  but  evil  in  the  world.  "Will  you 
believe  that,  dear  ?  " 

"  I  could  not  believe  it — I  know  that  it  is  not 
true.  And  yet  there  is  sacrifice  too.  Even  the 
meanest  of  us  may  be  called  upon  to  sacrifice 
something." 

"Do   not  delude  yourself  with   anything   so 


SUNSHINE  215 

foolish,  little  girl.  Those  who  are  never  willing 
to  give  anything  themselves  are  the  first  to  speak 
of  sacrifice.  The  man  that  marries  Feo  de 
Berthier  is  a  lucky  fellow.  Oh,  I  shall  find  a 
husband  for  her !  The  Archduke  will  help  me 
when  I  ask  him.  You  need  to  be  old,  my  child, 
to  know  how  to  answer  a  vain  man's  '  no.'  They 
always  begin  as  this  man  has  begun — a  little  debt 
to  their  pride  of  self,  and  then  a  larger  debt  to 
their  pride  of  generosity.  "When  the  letter  came 
yesterday " 

"  The  letter  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  the  letter  from  Vienna  which  com- 
manded Jerome  to  return — when  it  came,  I  said 
that  it  was  the  beginning  of  the  end.  This 
morning  there  is  a  telegram.  Our  boy  has  gone 
to  Pontarlier  to  answer  it  now.  But  he  will  not 
return  to  Vienna,  and  in  a  week  he  will  be  your 
husband.  Do  not  contradict  me,  child.  I  have 
said  it,  and  I  am  mistress  in  this  house." 

Feo  heard  her  with  astonishment.  She  knew 
nothing  of  the  letter  or  the  telegram.  But  she 
did  not  pursue  the  question,  for  the  maids  came 
to  lay  dejeuner,  and  Victorine  returned  breath- 
lessly to  the  arbour  with  letters  for  them  all. 

"  Three  for  Fran£oise,  the  lucky  girl !  That's 
a  bill,  and  it  must  be  for  aunt ;  here's  one  for 
Michel,  who  can't  read  it.  Poor  little  me,  there's 
only  a  post-card,  and  I  know  that  comes  from  the 


216  FfiO 

library  before  I  look  at  it.  That's  yours,  Feo." 
Feo  took  her  letter  with  some  anxiety.  She 
knew  that  her  father  had  written  it  almost  before 
she  saw  the  postmark.  The  cramped,  almost  il- 
legible handwriting  brought  before  her  an  un- 
welcome vision  of  the  past  she  would  have  for- 
gotten. The  old  life,  the  life  of  stress  and  pov- 
erty, and  complaint  unceasing,  could  thus  intrude 
even  upon  that  haven  of  rest  and  of  affection. 
Her  hands  trembled  as  she  dragged  the  paper 
from  the  envelope  and  began  to  read  that  strange 
appeal.  Her  father  was  in  London,  then — at 
the  old  lodging  in  Oxford  Street.  Under  other 
circumstances  his  lofty  rhetoric  and  impassioned 
appeals  would  have  amused  her.  But  she  re- 
called in  that  instance  his  solitude  of  life,  the 
claim  he  had  upon  her  in  spite  of  all.  Destiny 
was  hard  indeed  when  it  robbed  a  child  of  the 
right  to  love  its  own  father,  she  thought. 

"  MY  DAUGHTER, — It  will,  no  doubt,  be  a  lit- 
tle thing  to  you  that  an  old  man,  too  proud  to 
ask  anything  but  obedience  of  his  child,  should 
trouble  you  any  more  with  any  affairs  of  his.  If 
he  does  so,  it  is  a  father's  hand  which  holds  the 
pen,  a  father's  voice  which  dictates  the  words. 
Feo,  I  am  alone,  I  am  old  ;  if  my  immediate  ne- 
cessities have  been  relieved  by  kind  friends,  pov- 
erty none  the  less  must  be  the  handmaiden  of 
those  years — few  as  I  can  expect  them  to  be— 
which  lie  between  me  and  the  grave.  Of  this  I 


SUNSHINE  217 

do  not  complain.  I  can  face  the  battle  now  as  I 
have  faced  it  before.  Ingratitude  will  ally  itself 
to  the  forces  of  the  enemy.  I  care  nothing  for 
that,  but  only  for  the  road  to  which  avarice  and 
evil  ambition  are  leading  my  beloved  child.  A 
man's  tears  are  precious  things.  I  have  shed 
them  for  my  daughter.  Feo,  must  I  die  alone, 
one  whom  the  world  honoured  ?  Is  there  no  pity 
for  the  broken  fortunes  of  this  friendless  old  man 
who  has  sacrificed  so  much  for  you  ?  Think  well 
upon  it.  The  responsibility  is  yours.  Mine  is 
the  love  and  the  self-sacrifice  and  the  sorrow  for 
my  offspring.  GEORGES  DE  BERTHIEK." 

The  signature  was  a  great  scrawl  covering  the 
breadth  of  the  paper.  Feo  noticed  the  care  with 
which  the  letter  had  been  folded  and  sealed.  She 
would  have  given  much  to  believe  that  one  single 
sentiment,  even  one  word  of  love  in  all  that 
strange  appeal  had  been  spoken  from  the  heart 
of  the  writer.  There  was  no  fact  of  her  life  so 
powerful  to  compel  grief  as  the  relentless  logic 
which  could  read  through  this  pretence  and  sham, 
and  forbid  her  again  to  have  any  faith  when  her 
father  spoke.  No  sacrifice,  she  thought,  would 
have  been  too  great  to  win  one  hour  of  his  affec- 
tion, one  true  moment  of  pride  in  his  life,  and 
trust  in  him.  But  she  understood  now  that  sac- 
rifice and  charity  were  alike  unavailing.  He  had 
written  the  letter  surrounded  by  those  very  lux- 
uries for  which  he  would  have  sold  her  honour. 


218  '  FfiO 

All  else  she  could  have  forgiven ;  but  that  was 
the  crime  against  her  which  even  her  desire  of 
love  might  never  excuse.  She  must  be  alone  to 
her  life's  end.  "While  she  had  money,  she  would 
send  it  to  him ;  but  she  would  never  see  him 
again  nor  remember  that  she  was  his  daughter. 

Madame  la  Comtesse  had  watched  her  closely 
while  she  read  the  letter,  and  afterwards,  when 
she  sat  with  it  crumpled  in  her  hand,  and  gazed 
with  tear-dewed  eyes  over  the  sunny  valley  and 
the  sleeping  villages.  Georges  de  Berthier  was 
no  stranger  to  one  of  Avhom  music  had  made 
so  zealous  a  pilgrim.  Madame  knew  his  story, 
his  character,  his  past.  And  her  quick  wit  could 
almost  read  the  contents  of  the  appeal  which 
troubled  Feo  with  such  dark  memories. 

"  You  are  to  go  back  to  London,  eh,  my  dear  ? 
Is  not  that  what  he  wants  ?  They  have  paid  him 
a  thousand  pounds  to  leave  France,  and  will  give 
him  another  when  our  boy  is  married.  Don't  be 
frightened  to  speak  to  me.  I  know  Georges  de 
Berthier, — none  better.  While  you  can  be  of  use 
to  him  he  will  remember  that  you  are  his  daugh- 
ter. "When  you  are  no  longer  of  use  he  will  for- 
get that  he  has  a  child.  Do  not  think  or  speak 
of  it,  little  Feo.  There -are  things  we  must  not 
say.  "We  cry  over  them,  but  breaking  our  hearts 
won't  change  them.  Tear  the  letter  up  and  try 
to  believe  that  it  was  never  written." 


SUNSHINE  219 

"  That's  what  I  do  with  my  bills/'  said  Vic- 
torine,  interposing  audaciously. 

"  Ah,  ungrateful  one,  and  a  poor  old  woman 
has  to  pay  them  But  we  shall  not  think  of  any- 
thing sad  this  morning,  for  our  little  invalid  is 
in  the  sunshine.  Come,  my  child,  you  must  find 
a  smile  for  that  pretty  face.  You  would  not 
have  him  see  you  with  tears  in  your  eyes." 

"  They're  always  kind  to  you  when  you  cry, 
aunt,"  exclaimed  Yictorine. 

Feo's  eyes  brightened  suddenly. 

"You  are  a  philosopher,  Yictorine,"  she  an- 
swered, "  and  here  is  Jerome." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  SECRET 

HE  rode  a  good  grey  horse  at  a  swinging  trot, 
and  waved  his  whip  cheerily  when  he  saw  Feo 
at  the  door  of  the  tent.  His  dress  was  a  dark- 
blue  riding-coat  with  brown  kharki  breeches  and 
high  brown  boots.  His  spurs  and  the  silver  knob 
of  his  hunting-crop  caught  the  sun's  rays  and 
held  them  an  instant  in  flashing  lights.  Feo  said 
that  she  had  never  seen  a  man  who  sat  a  horse 
so  well  or  with  so  little  effort.  Mere  physical 
supremacy  appealed  to  her  in  such  moments  as 
these.  She  had  a  great  pride  in  Jerome's  mag- 
nificent strength,  as,  at  other  times,  his  mas- 
tery of  will  fascinated  her.  The  battle  between 
them  was  so  unequal,  the  contention  so  one-sided. 
Alone  and  far  from  him,  she  won  the  victory  of 
self.  But  when  he  came  to  her,  she  knew  that 
she  must  surrender  as  a  child  to  one  in  authority. 

"  How  well  he  rides !  "  said  Victorine,  watching 
him  delightedly.  "Paul  used  to  look  unhappy 
on  a  horse.  I  told  him  so  once,  and  he  was 
cross ;  but  we  made  it  up  afterwards  when  I  said 
that  he  shot  splendidly.  Don't  you  think  we 
ought  to  go  away,  aunt  ?  " 

220 


THE   SECRET  221 

Madame  nodded  her  head  sagaciously. 

"  They  will  have  all  their  lives,  my  dear — they 
will  not  grudge  us  these  little  minutes.  How 
grave  the  boy  looks !  I  wonder  what  new  trouble 
he  brings  now." 

Feo,  too,  had  noticed  that  unaccustomed  grav- 
ity, and  it  banished  the  smile  from  her  own  face. 

"  I  hope  there  is  no  bad  news,"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Take  no  notice  of  it,  child — we  cannot  always 
be  laughing.  He  is  grave  because  you  do  not 
run  down  to  meet  him.  Ah,  Prince !  you  have 
come,  then." 

Jerome  leaped  lightly  from  his  -horse  and 
tethered  him  to  the  tent  pole.  His  salute  to 
madame  was  a  kiss  upon  both  cheeks ;  and  then, 
kneeling  swiftly  at  Fee's  side,  he  put  his  arm 
about  her  and  raised  her  up  until  their  lips  met. 

"Dear  Feo,"  he  said,  "there  is  sunshine,  in- 
deed, when  I  find  you  in  the  gardens.  I  have 
counted  the  minutes.  I  did  not  know  it  would 
be  to-day." 

"Always  of  me,  dearest — and  yet,  I  have 
counted  the  minutes,  too." 

She  spoke  almost  in  a  whisper,  lying  in  his 
arms  as  though  that  rest  she  had  sought  so 
wearily  was  there  to  be  found.  But  her  next 
question  was  an  anxious  one. 

"  You  have  heard  some  bad  news  to-day — we 
said  so  as  you  rode  up.  Am  I  not  to  know  ?  " 


222 

"You  are  to  know  nothing  except  that  the  sun 
shines  and  the  sky  is  blue.  What  bad  news 
could  I  have  heard  when  Feo  is  getting  well 
again  ?  " 

He  made  a  pretence  of  laughing  at  it,  and 
stood  up  to  exchange  a  word  with  madame. 

"  Everything  goes  splendidly,"  he  said.  "  My 
father  is  now  in  the  irresponsible  stage.  Con- 
valescence comes  afterwards.  I  have  telegraphed 
to-day  resigning  my  commission  in  the  Cuiras- 
siers. That  means  that  they  cannot  call  me  back 
to  Vienna  for  any  military  service.  The  next 
step  will  be  to  bring  my  father  from  Karlsbad 
to  Pontarlier — where  he  will  apologise  to  us  all 
and  admit  that  he  has  been  very  foolish.  You 
see  they  play  this  game  with  naked  foils.  I 
must  play  it  in  the  same  way — since  it  is  a  mat- 
ter of  life  or  death  to  me.  "When  the  game  is 
over,  the  Archduke  will  have  enjoyed  it  as  much 
as  any  one.  He  is  very  fond  of  excitement,  and 
I  am  supplying  him  with  plenty  of  it." 

Madame  heard  the  confession  with  delight. 

".And  the  men — have  they  been  here  again  ? 
Is  Captain  Lamberg  still  at  Boveresse  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  too  little  anxiety  on  the 
point.  One  thing  is  certain :  he  will  know  better 
than  to  come  to  the  Chateau  de  Joux.  I  have 
ceased  to  interest  myself  in  his  movements — 
principally,  perhaps,  because  I  am  very  hungry." 


THE   SECRET  223 

Madame  clapped  her  hands  for  the  servants. 

"  My  poor  boy,"  she  exclaimed,  "  it  is  nearly 
one  o'clock,  and  we  are  all  fasting.  "What  a 
selfish  old  woman  I  am  to  starve  my  hungry 
children ! " 

They  sat  at  table,  Jerome  so  close  to  Feo's 
low  chair  that  he  could  hold  her  hand  in  his  and 
whisper  a  word  to  bring  gratitude  to  her  eyes. 
All  about  them  the  scene  was  of  summer  at  her 
zenith.  The  gaunt  pines  swayed  to  the  gentlest 
breezes ;  sheep  bells  tinkled  upon  the  pastures  of 
the  valley;  oxen  drew  the  wagons  leisurely,  as 
though  the  stress  of  labour  were  unknown  in  that 
fair  land.  Away  in  the  hills  the  shepherds  basked 
in  the  shadow  of  crag  and  tree,  and  forgot  the 
lagging  hours  and  the  labour  of  the  night.  There 
was  the  shimmer  of  heat  in  the  air.  Fleecy 
vapours  found  their  resting-places  about  the 
green  summits  of  the  higher  peaks.  So  silent, 
so  full  of  the  sense  of  rest  was  it  all  that  a  man 
speaking  upon  the  river's  bank  below  sent  echoes 
flying  to  the  gorges  of  the  pass.  The  eye  wearied 
of  the  beauty  of  the  prospect  and  turned  to  the 
nearer  shadows  and  the  arbours  where  the  sun- 
light was  not. 

In  silence  for  the  most  part,  the  dejeuner  was 
taken.  Victorine,  discreet  always,  turned  her 
back  upon  Feo  and  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  val- 
ley road.  Madame  was  busy  with  a  full  plate 


224:  FlCO 

and  her  glass  of  white  wine.  Jerome,  a  little 
abstracted  still,  waited  until  the  repast  was  done 
before  seeking  that  explanation  which  he  now 
felt  to  be  Feo's  due.  She,  in  turn,  watched  him 
anxiously.  There  was  a  subtle  change  in  his 
manner  which  she  could  not  wholly  understand. 
She  set  it  down  to  her  own  scruples ;  and  she 
could  not  conceal  it  from  herself  that  the  conse- 
q.uences  of  her  action  were  likely  to  demand  a 
heavy  penalty. 

"You  have  something  to  tell  me,  dear,"  she 
said,  when  at  last  they  were  alone  together.  "  I 
have  known  since  I  saw  you  at  the  lodge  gates. 
Is  it  too  dreadful,  or  may  I  hear  it  now  ?  " 

He  turned  his  chair  and  sat  playing  with  her 
pretty  hair  and  the  ribbon  which  tied  it. 

"I  can't  explain  to-day,  Feo.  If  there  were 
anything  serious,  I  should  feel  it  right  to  speak. 
But  there  never  is  anything  serious  in  these  mat- 
ters, if  one  can  only  look  at  them  properly. 
What  I  feel  most  is  your  own  confession  to  me 
when  we  were  driving  back  from  Boveresse.  I 
had  never  thought  of  it  in  that  light.  A  man  in 
love  is  a  very  selfish  person.  He  will  not  hear 
the  other  side.  It  should  have  been  clear  to  me 
that  your  self-respect  was  in  question  when  I 
asked  you  to  come  back.  Frankly,  I  had  never 
thought  of  it  until  you  spoke.  But  I  see  it  now 
as  you  see  it,  and  I  mean  to  act  up  to  it.  My 


THE   SECRET      .  225 

father  will  give  his  consent,  and  that  will  end 
the  difficulty.  There  can  be  no  other  solution ; 
I  do  not  intend  that  there  shall  be  any  other." 

Feo  was  silent  a  little  while.  She  had  won 
her  point;  but  the  victory  might  cost  her  the 
happiness  of  her  life. 

"  What  people  call  the  best  thing  is  often  the 
right  thing,"  she  said  after  a  little  pause.  "  "We 
owe  something  to  the  opinion  of  others  and  to 
their  feelings.  The  '  original '  person  is  some- 
times only  a  very  selfish  person.  Some  day, 
Jerome,  we  may  be  glad  that  all  this  happened." 

"  Of  course  we  shall  be.  I  don't  agree  alto- 
gether with  your  views  on  originality,  but  I  am 
not  going  to  argue  with  my  little  girl  to-day. 
If  there  had  never  been  any  original  persons  in 
the  world,  you  and  I  might  be  going  about  now 
with  bows  and  arrows  in  our  hands.  I  am  orig- 
inal enough  to  believe  that  if  a  man  loves  a 
woman  and  is  sure  of  her  love  in  return,  he  owes 
neither  reason  nor  apology  to  any  living  crea- 
ture. Why  should  we  ask  the  permission  for 
surrendering  to  the  best  impulses  of  our  nature  ? 
If  we  apologise  for  those  impulses,  we  seem  to  be 
ashamed  of  them.  When  I  am  ashamed  of  my 
love  for  you,  I  will  make  excuses  for  it.  We 
shall  be  very  old  then,  mignonne." 

"  And  serious  ?  " 

"  We  shall  not  be  less  serious  because  we  know 


226 

how  to  laugh.  Your  solemn  person  is  generally 
a  humbug.  He  is  solemn  because  he  is  thinking 
of  his  sins.  And  we  have  no  sins  to  think  of  ?  " 

"  None  that  I  would  not  speak  of  gladly  to 
you." 

"Nor  I,  dear." 

They  understood,  mutually,  the  implication 
of  that  confession ;  and  the  strength  of  the  bond 
between  them  seemed  the  greater  for  it.  Her 
cheek  pressed  close  to  his  when  next  she  asked  a 
question. 

"  And  this  is  all  your  news,  Jerome  ?  " 

"  What  else  could  there  be  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know — and  yet " 

"And  yet — and  yet — we  do  not  believe.  Is 
not  faith  a  virtue  ?  " 

"  And  foresight  equally." 

"  You  imagine  troubles.  Every  one  does  that. 
The  trouble  is  the  imagination." 

"  I  will  try  to  believe  it." 

"  And  will  not  worry  ?  " 

"Why  should  I?" 

"There  is  no  possible  reason.  Here  is  the 
doctor  come  to  tell  you  so." 

He  heard  the  doctor's  buggy  as  it  rattled  upon 
the  gravel  of  the  avenue ;  and  a  moment  later 
the  cheery  voice  of  the  bustling  little  man,  who 
lost  no  time  in  upbraiding  his  patient. 

"Come,  come,  come,  not  indoors  yet,  made- 


THE  SECKET  227 

moiselle !  God  bless  me,  what  are  the  children 
thinking  of!  Upstairs,  young  lady,  at  once. 
The  physicians  of  Paris  might  let  you  sit  here 
and  die ;  but  I  am  only  an  old  country  doctor, 
and  I  say,  Go  in,  go  in." 

Feo  laughed. 

"  I  will  tell  the  physicians  of  Paris  some  day, 
doctor." 

"  Of  course  you  shall.  Give  them  Leon  Oster's 
compliments,  and  say  that  they  are  all  fools. 
Physic,  mademoiselle,  there  is  nothing  new  in 
physic.  The  ancients  knew  more  about  it  than 
we  do.  We  can  saw  and  cut — what's  that !  But 
we  haven't  found  the  Elixir  of  Life, — not  at  all. 
Bed,  rest,  those  are  my  elixirs.  When  my  pa- 
tients are  reasonable,  I  cure  them.  It  is  the  un- 
reasonable person  who  dies,  mademoiselle." 

"  Then  I  will  be  very  reasonable,  doctor." 

"And  permit  this  young  gentleman  to  carry 
you  upstairs.  I  prescribe  it,  mademoiselle, — it  is 
my  treatment." 

There  was  a  twinkle  in  the  doctor's  eye  when 
he  spoke,  and  Jerome,  quick  to  appreciate  the 
humour  of  it,  picked  up  Feo  in  his  arms  and  car- 
ried her  swiftly  to  the  house. 

"  You  have  registered  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Through  to  Vienna,  and  no  customs." 

He  left  her  in  her  pretty  boudoir  ;  and  a  little 
later  on  she  was  at  the  window,  waving  a  fare- 


228 

well  to  him  as  he  rode  down  to  Pontarlier  again. 
She  understood  vaguely  that  he  thought  to  serve 
her  by  staying  in  the  town  rather  than  at  the 
chateau ;  and  she  appreciated  the  delicacy  of  his 
thought.  But  Yictorine,  chattering  always,  was 
there  with  another  reason. 

"They  say  that  Captain  Lamberg  is  still  at 
Boveresse,"  she  exclaimed,  when  the  horse  and 
rider  were  hidden  by  the  first  of  the  pine  woods. 
"I  don't  like  that,  Feo.  And  aunt  says  they 
will  fight.  Of  course  she  says  so ;  she's  always 
imagining  horrible  things." 

Feo  turned  quickly  ;  she  lost  the  colour  which 
the  gardens  had  given  her. 

"  I  had  never  thought  of  that,"  she  exclaimed. 

"  And  there's  no  reason  to  think  of  it.  I'm 
sure  it's  nonsense  if  ma  tante  says  it." 

But  Feo  was  silent.  The  secret  which  Jerome 
had  hidden  from  her  was  revealed  in  that  mo- 
ment. A  terrible  secret  she  thought  it.  He 
would  give  his  life  for  her  good  name. 


CHAPTEE  XXYI 

THE  SHADOW 

A  STILL  night  without  cloud  to  veil  its  glitter- 
ing world  of  stars,  followed  upon  the  heat  of  the 
day.  From  her  windows  Feo  could  see  the  val- 
ley and  the  white  villages,  and  the  cluster  of 
lights  which  stood  for  Pontarlier  ;  but  the  scene 
no  longer  suggested  to  her  that  content  of  life 
she  had  wished  for  when  first  her  eyes  beheld  it. 
It  was  as  though  the  irony  of  circumstance, 
which  had  attended  these  later  days,  threatened 
to  rob  her  of  that  good  common  sense  which 
once  had  been  her  richest  possession.  Too  much 
the  mistress  of  herself  to  be  the  victim  of  panic 
or  of  any  unreasoned  impulse,  nevertheless  the 
momentous  news,  which  the  day  had  brought, 
was  beyond  her  capacity  for  patience  or  even  for 
any  abiding  resolution.  Her  own  folly,  she  said, 
had  culminated  in  this  greater  folly — that  Je- 
rome's life  was  staked  as  the  price  of  it.  Not 
for  a  moment  would  she  credit  the  voluble  de- 
ceptions with  which  Victorine  had  sought  to 
make  light  of  the  affair.  There  had  been  many 
witnesses  of  Lam  berg's  punishment.  A  blow  had 

229 


230 

been  struck  ;  a  challenge  had  been  given.  She 
understood  that  one  answer  alone  could  satisfy 
the  honour  of  the  men  who  thus  had  come  face 
to  face  at  Boveresse. 

This  truth,  and  this  truth  clear  above  others 
was  the  gift  of  those  silent  hours.  Whatever 
tragedy  befell,  she  was  the  cause  of  it.  Had 
Frenchmen  been  concerned,  a  humour  of  the  sit- 
uation might  have  combated  its  inevitableness. 
But  these  were  Cuirassiers  of  the  Austrian  Guard. 
She  had  not  lived  a  year  and  more  in  Vienna  to 
be  ignorant  of  the  graver  stories  which  contrib- 
uted to  the  history  of  the  duel  in  Austria.  Even 
among  her  own  friends  she  could  recall  the  name 
of  one,  Rupert  Leginski,  a  captain  of  artillery, 
who  had  been  shot  for  a  word,  and  whose  body 
had  been  lifted  into  a  carriage  at  the  very  mo- 
ment when  she  herself  was  riding  her  pony  in 
the  Prater.  These  men  were  no  heroes  for  the 
satirists  and  the  makers  of  toy  swords.  The  day 
upon  which  they  came  face  to  face  again  might 
change  the  whole  course  of  her  life.  She  did 
not,  perhaps,  realise  all  that  such  a  day  would 
mean ;  but  a  shadow  of  the  peril  attended  her 
through  the  long  night  and  hovered  about  her 
while  she  slept.  One  would  emerge  from  that 
encounter.  She  dared  not  tell  herself  that  it 
might  not  be  Jerome. 

Suspense  and  doubt  banished  sleep  from  her 


THE  SHADOW  231 

eyes.  She  dressed  herself  laboriously  as  soon  as 
there  was  any  sound  of  life  about  the  house ;  and 
begging  help  of  the  maids,  she  went  out  to  the 
gardens  at  the  first  of  the  day.  Even  Victorine 
was  not  up  then.  In  the  gardens  the  men  were 
at  work  under  the  quiet  directions  of  old  Michel. 
A  delicious  balmy  odour  came  upon  the  air  of 
morning.  Great  drops  of  crystal  dew  dripped 
from  the  luscious  buds  ;  the  flowers  opened  their 
petals  to  the  sun  and  the  breeze.  All  the  luxury 
of  the  great  chateau,  the  refinement  of  the  life 
there,  the  splendid  tradition  of  the  family,  the 
dignity  attending  the  household,  had  become 
part  of  her  life  now.  When  the  others  were 
with  her,  when  she  listened  to  Jerome's  irrefuta- 
ble optimism,  she  could  forget  that  the  day 
might  be  near  when  she  must  quit  a  haven  so 
generous  and  return  to  that  penurious  existence 
which  had  been  her  lot  almost  from  her  child- 
hood. The  weeks  of  content  she  had  known 
would  make  such  a  return  very  difficult.  The 
stress  and  struggle  were  not  so  much  her  fear  as 
that  sordid  poverty,  that  shaming  environment, 
that  pitiful  aping  of  respectability  which  her 
career  demanded,  and  to  which,  for  the  sake  of 
her  art,  she  had  submitted.  The  humblest  cot- 
tage in  all  that  valley,  the  hut  of  the  shepherd, 
the  little  chalet  where  the  gardeners  lived — she 
would  have  named  any  of  these  a  palace  if 


232  FfiO 

therein  a  home  might  be  found  for  her,  and  she 
might  bid  farewell  to  the  garrets  of  the  cities 
and  the  ambition  which  had  sent  her  to  the  gar- 
rets. Yet  fate  had  willed  it  otherwise.  The  net 
which  destiny  drew  about  her  prisoned  her  more 
surely  every  hour.  Once,  as  she  watched  the 
awaking  pastures  and  the  splendour  of  the  day 
down  there  in  the  sunlit  valley,  she  told  herself 
that  the  meeting  might  have  taken  place  already, 
and  the  news  of  it  be  known.  The  probability 
that  such  was  the  case  grew  upon  her  from 
minute  to  minute.  She  could  not,  despite  her 
resolution,  speak  of  anything  else  when  madame, 
hearing  of  her  escapade,  came  reproachfully  to 
the  gardens  and  began  to  upbraid  her. 

"Victorine  has  told  me,"  was  her  defence. 
"  I  could  not  sleep,  and  Franpoise  helped  me  out 
here.  You  must  not  be  cross.  Doctors  are 
always  so  silly.  And  of  course  I  am  very 
anxious " 

Madame,  to  whom  the  idea  of  a  duel  was  as  the 
very  essence  of  that  drama  she  loved,  affected 
great  surprise. 

"You  are  foolish,  child,  to  listen  to  such  a 
story,"  she  exclaimed.  "  Do  not  believe  it.  As 
if  Jerome  had  not  something  else  to  think  about, 
— a  self-willed  little  girl,  to  begin  with.  Ah,  my 
dear,  the  times  are  changed  indeed.  I  remember 
when  General  Moray  went  out  with  the  Count 


THE  SHADOW  233 

of  Traves  because  I  wouldn't  have  him,  and  do 
you  think  that  I  was  anxious  ?  My  word,  I 
laughed  when  they  told  me.  I  was  so  proud 
that  day  I  could  not  walk.  You  should  be 
pleased  and  proud  too — the  foolish  fellows  will 
not  hurt  each  other ;  they  never  do." 

Feo  heard  her  impatiently. 

"If  I  had  thought  about  it,  I  should  have 
known  it  from  the  first,"  she  said,  as  one  con- 
vinced unwillingly.  "When  Jerome  came  to 
Boveresse  he  struck  Captain  Lamberg  with  his 
whip.  They  said  something  to  each  other,  but  I 
was  so  glad  to  be  in  the  dog-cart  that  I  did  not 
listen.  I  have  lived  too  long  in  Austria  to  ex- 
pect them  to  be  sensible.  If  they  were  English- 
men, it  would  be  different.  You  do  not  know 
how  much  I  wish  sometimes  that  Jerome  had  no 
honour.  Every  day  it  compels  him  to  do  some- 
thing or  not  to  do  it.  It  is  too  subtle  for  me  to 
understand.  If  I  did  not  love  him,  I  would  say 
that  it  is  too  ridiculous." 

Madame  followed  the  confession  with  diffi- 
culty. 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  "  men  have  so  much  to  live 
for,  child.  Your  poet,  Shakespeare,  has  said  it 
better  than  you  or  I  will  ever  say  it.  A  wom- 
an's love  is  her  little  kingdom,  but  the  man's 
world  is  very  wide.  If  I  thought  that  our  boy 
was  in  any  danger,  do  you  think  that  I  could  sit 


234  FfiO 

here,  at  the  door  of  my  own  house,  and  leave 
him  to  others  ?  Do  not  believe  it.  He  is  a 
Hapsburg,  and  the  man  who  has  sent  him  a 
challenge  is  not  likely  to  forget  it." 

And  then  she  added  — 

"  You  must  not  complain  because  we  quarrel 
sometimes  with  your  English  ideas.  You  are 
very  cold-blooded  in  England,  my  dear.  You 
think  only  of  the  money.  At  heart  human  na- 
ture is  much  the  same  all  the  world  over ;  but  a 
woman's  instincts  are  surer  than  a  man's,  and  a 
woman's  instinct  tells  me  now  that  Jerome  has 
done  well  to  meet  his  enemies  and  to  show  them 
that  he  is  not  afraid." 

Feo  caught  the  admission  instantly. 

"  He  is  to  meet  him,  then.  What  else  am  I  to 
think  ?  You  keep  it  from  me,  and  you  know." 

"  I  know  nothing,  my  child — it  is  always  best 
to  know  nothing  when  men  wish  to  quarrel. 
You  cannot  help  them  and  you  cannot  prevent 
them — or  if  you  do  prevent  them,  they  will  not 
love  you  for  it.  Be  sure  that  it  is  not  little 
Feo's  fault.  She  has  nothing  to  blame  herself 
for.  If  it  had  not  been  for  her,  it  would  have 
been  for  another.  We  are  in  a  country  where 
these  things  are  inevitable.  Men  grow  to  man- 
hood upon  them  and  are  the  better  men  because 
of  them.  You  will  be  glad  to-morrow  when  he 
comes  to  tell  you  all  about  it." 


THE  SHADOW  235 

"I  should  be  ashamed  of  myself  if  I  were. 
Oh,  you  cannot  realise  what  I  think  and  feel ! 
His  life  is  at  stake — his  life.  I  remember  noth- 
ing else.  He  came  to  Pontarlier  for  my  sake. 
He  is  here  to  help  me.  If  anything  should  hap- 
pen— if  it  happened  while  we  were  speaking  of 
it  this  morning — how  could  I  forgive  myself  ?  " 

Her  grief  was  very  real,  but  it  did  not  touch 
the  heart  of  one  who  could  turn  the  pages  of 
her  memory  back  to  twenty  such  affairs  as  this, 
— and  recall  the  part  she  had  delighted  to  play 
in  them. 

"No,  no,"  she  protested  unsympathetically, 
"  women  make  the  tragedies,  little  Feo — not  the 
men.  I  have  seen  so  many.  It  is  always  the 
old  story — they  will  do  anything  for  us  if  we  do 
not  ask  them.  And  Jerome  was  born  with  a 
silver  spoon.  There  will  be  no  duel  to-day,  my 
child,  for  the  servant  does  not  fight  the  master ; 
and  our  boy  is  still  the  master,  whatever  else 
has  happened." 

This,  and  much  more  to  the  same  end,  was  the 
consolation  she  vouchsafed.  Capable  of  certain 
sentimental  affections,  the  capacity,  nevertheless, 
rightly  to  read  the  heart  of  this  English  girl  she 
had  befriended  was  wanting  to  her.  She  had 
helped  Jerome  because  of  the  position  he  held  at 
the  Court  of  Austria,  and  the  European  publicity 
which  she  knew  must  ultimately  attend  this  af- 


236 

fair.  To  Feo's  future  she  did  not  give  a  thought. 
The  girl  would  be  morganatically  married,  per- 
haps, and  afterwards  disappear  as  so  many 
others,  whose  names  she  could  recall  in  her  own 
life's  story,  had  disappeared  and  been  forgotten. 
For  the  rest,  it  sufficed  that  her  old  age  had  con- 
trived yet  another  intrigue  of  which  she  might 
be  the  heart  and  impulse.  Excitement  was  a,s 
necessary  to  her  years  as  rouge  to  an  actress.  It 
made  her  young  again,  and  in  the  rejuvenescence 
robbed  her  of  the  will  to  befriend  or  sympathise. 
But  Feo  desired  neither  sympathy  nor  consola- 
tion. A  feverish  unrest  possessed  her.  In  spite 
of  all  argument,  she  held  to  the  belief  that  this 
day  would  not  draw  to  its  close  as  it  had  begun. 
And,  above  all,  she  blamed  herself  unceasingly 
because  she  had  been  content  to  deceive  herself 
with  the  happiness  she  had  found  at  the  chateau  : 
and  to  crave  of  it  a  hope  of  the  future  to  which 
she  had  no  possible  claim. 


CHAPTER  XXYII 

THE  VISION 

SHE  had  a  foreboding  of  the  day ;  but  it  was 
not  justified,  for  a  messenger  rode  up  to  the 
chateau  at  sunset  and  carried  a  letter  from  Je- 
rome. He  had  been  detained,  he  said,  at  Pont- 
aiiier  by  telegrams  from  his  father,  who  was 
betraying  some  glimmerings  of  reason,  and  who 
had  already  proposed  a  truce.  To-morrow,  if 
that  were  possible,  he,  himself,  would  be  at  Joux 
to  breakfast,  with  much  to  speak  of,  and  better 
news  than  he  imagined  possible  yesterday.  But 
she  must  not  worry  if  he  did  not  come,  and  she 
might  be  sure  that  all  was  well  with  him.  For 
the  rest,  he  spoke  of  commonplace  things ;  of  the 
need  that  she  should  take  care  of  herself,  and 
obey  the  doctor  implicitly  ;  and  she  could  read  in 
these  injunctions  the  desire  to  keep  from  her  sus- 
picion of  graver  fears.  But  she  did  not  speak  to 
madame  of  the  letter ;  nor  would  she  trouble 
them  again  with  her  own  apprehensions.  A 
woman's  weakness  in  such  an  hour  had  ever 
seemed  to  her  a  contemptible  thing.  She  must 
endure  in  silence,  as  in  silence  she  must  suffer. 

237 


238  FfiO 

The  letter  came  at  sunset,  and  there  was  a  sec- 
ond to  the  same  end  upon  the  breakfast-table 
next  morning.  He  would  come  that  afternoon 
if  possible ;  but  he  had  heard  from  Vienna  news 
which  could  not  fail  to  be  welcome  to  them. 
The  Archduke  was  content  with  his  ambassador 
no  longer.  Another,  the  Count  of  Travna,  had 
left  the  capital,  and  was  then  upon  his  way  to 
Pontarlier.  That  final  understanding  they  both 
desired  so  ardently,  could  not  now  be  long  de- 
layed. For  better  for  worse,  an  arrangement 
must  be  found  within  the  week.  Jerome  did  not 
doubt  that  it  would  mean  great  happiness  for 
them  both ;  and  be  the  reward  of  these  pitiful 
weeks  of  intrigue  and  of  humiliation. 

Feo  read  the  letter  twice.  She  dared  not  be- 
lieve now  either  in  his  optimism  or  in  any  hope 
of  better  fortune  for  herself.  Whatever  else  this 
new  trouble  had  done  for  her,  at  least  it  had  per- 
mitted her  to  forget  her  own  hurt,  and  to  say 
that  she  was  almost  well  again.  The  second  day 
found  her  laughing  at  the  astonishment  of  the 
little  doctor  from  Andelot.  She  began  to  seek 
her  old  solitudes  in  the  gardens  of  the  chateau  ; 
she  even  thought,  in  a  moment  of  earnest  desire 
to  know  the  truth,  that  she  might  persuade  Cesar 
to  drive  her  down  to  Pontarlier,  where  she 
would  find  Jerome  and  tell  him  of  her  own  reso- 
lutions. 


THE  VISION  239 

But  Cesar  was  obdurate,  and  Yictorine,  her 
faithful  ambassador  always,  must  serve  in  her 
stead.  Every  hour  Victorine  would  come  in  with 
some  shred  of  gossip  torn  from  a  willing  serving- 
man,  or  heard  by  the  maid  Frangoise  in  her  ex- 
cursions to  the  town.  Boveresse  had  made  the 
affair  its  own.  Kightly,  then,  did  Frangoise  gloat 
over  her  tidings. 

"The  Captain  is  still  at  Boveresse,  mademoiselle. 
He  has  been  ill ;  he  would  not  show  himself  at 
the  hotel.  He  was  to  have  gone  out  yesterday, 
but  at  the  last  moment  he  sent  a  message.  I 
spoke  to  Maitre  Belard,  and  he  knows  of  things. 
It  may  be  to-morrow,  and  it  may  be  the  day 
after.  He  is  very  angry,  the  Captain,  and  he  will 
hear  of  nothing  else." 

Yictorine,  half  afraid  of  the  news,  yet  glad  to 
carry  it  to  Feo,  was  almost  serious  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life. 

"  He  is  not  going ;  he  is  a  coward.  Frangoise 
has  told  me ;  he  thinks  that  he  is  ill,  and  we  can 
laugh  at  him.  Cesar's  brother  was  at  Boveresse 
yesterday,  and  heard  it  all.  Maitre  Belard  de- 
clares that  he  will  go  off  to  Paris,  and  that  there 
will  not  be  any  duel  at  all.  I  don't  believe  that, 
but  perhaps  it's  true.  Oh,  how  glad  I  am !  And 
we  shall  know  soon.  It  must  be  to-morrow— 
m  ust — must.  And  you  won't  think  about  it,  Feo  ? 
You  promised  me." 


240  FfiO 

Feo  smiled  in  spite  of  her  thoughts. 

"  That  would  be  so  easy,  Victorine.  Of  course 
I  am  not  interested  at  all." 

"  Oh,  but  it's  diiferent  now  !  "What  has  Jerome 
to  fear  from  a  coward  ?  Ma  tante  says  that  the 
Captain  dare  not  harm  him.  Wouldn't  I  like 
Paul  to  fight  with  a  coward !  And  just  think, 
to-morrow  we  shall  hear  all  about  it ;  we  shall 
have  nothing  more  to  bother  us,  and  we'll  have  a 
picnic  to  the  Cascades.  I'll  try  to  believe  that 
Paul  is  here,  and  go  off  all  by  myself  just  as  we 
used  to." 

"  That  would  be  a  lonely  walk,  dear.  But,  of 
course,  you  do  not  mean  it.  If  I  were  afraid  for 
Jerome,  it  would  be  different ;  but  can  one  be 
afraid  for  a  man  one  really  loves  ?  I  don't  think 
so.  And  I  don't  believe  that  Captain  Lamberg 
is  a  coward.  It  is  the  uncertainty  of  it  all  that 
makes  it  so  horrible.  I  am  beginning  to  wish 
that  I  had  wings,  and  could  say, '  London,'  as  they 
used  to  in  the  story-books.  Where  shall  I  be 
next  week  ?  Ah,  Victorine,  you  have  never  had 
to  ask  yourself  a  question  like  that !  " 

"  Oh,  but  haven't  I  ?  Where  shall  I  be  next 
week  ?  Why  here,  watching  you  and  Jerome  in 
the  woods." 

She  sighed,  and  putting  her  arm  through  her 
friend's,  began  to  walk  across  the  sunny  lawn  to 
the  door  of  the  chateau. 


THE  VISION  241 

"  Some  day  we  will  go  to  London  together, 
Feo.  When  you  are  married,  I  will  come  and 
stop  with  you.  Paul  will  be  there ;  you  will  ask 
him  for  my  sake.  And  aunt  will  have  to  stop  at 
the  chateau.  "We  will  tell  her  there  are  no  spare 
bedrooms.  All  the  people  who  don't  want  her 
say  that.  'I  shouldn't  enjoy  myself  a  bit  if  she 
were  there,  and  I  am  tired,  oh !  so  tired,  of  being 
a  good  little  dog  that  every  one  leads  about  with 
a  string.  Won't  you  promise  me,  Feo  ?  " 

Feo  kissed  her. 

"  We  are  two  children  dreaming  our  dreams," 
she  said.  "  Who  knows  that  I  shall  ever  see  you 
again  when  I  have  left  France  ?  And  I  must 
leave  it  now.  I  have  no  longer  the  excuse  of  ill- 
ness. When  next  you  hear  of  me,  Victorine,  I 
shall  be  in  gloomy  old  London,  a  singer  about 
whom  no  one  cares — a  drudge  who  has  no  home. 
But  I  shall  never  forget  my  friends  at  the  chateau, 
never,  never.  I  think  that  I  began  to  live  on 
the  day  when  first  I  saw  these  gardens.  It  will 
be  hard  to  leave  them,  harder  than  you  can  be- 
lieve." 

The  note  of  sorrow  in  her  voice  touched  the 
child's  good  heart.  She  clung  the  closer  to  her 
friend  and  kissed  her  cheek. 

"  I  shall  come  to  you,  Feo,  wherever  you  are," 
she  said  gently  ;  "  if  you  will  let  me,  I  will  never 
have  another  friend.  And,  of  course,  it's  all 


242  FfiO 

silly.  You  are  not  going  to  gloomy  old  London, 
and  you  will  not  be  a  drudge.  Jerome  will  be 
here  to-morrow,  and  then — and  then " 

Feo  did  not  answer  her.  That  clear  girlish  voice 
seemed  to  have  lost  its  music  in  the  thought  of 
the  day,  so  soon  to  come,  when  she  would  hear  it 
no  more.  Yet  the  promise  of  friendship  was  very 
dear  to  her.  It  would  be  something  to  remember, 
in  the  lonely  pilgrimage  she  must  make,  that  one 
at  least  in  distant  France  held  her  name  in 
loving  remembrance.  And  she  had  no  doubt  of 
her  future  now.  Had  it  not  been  for  this  unfore- 
seen folly,  which  harassed  her  unceasingly,  she 
would  have  quitted  the  chateau  that  very  night. 
The  determination  to  sacrifice  the  last  of  her 
hopes  would  not  be  contradicted  by  any  subter- 
fuge of  her  logic.  She  knew  that  she  had  loved 
wholly,  unselfishly,  as  few  women  love ;  she  real- 
ised the  duty  of  atoning  in  self-abnegation  for  all 
that  had  been.  But  first  she  must  know  that 
Jerome  had  nothing  more  to  fear  at  the  hands  of 
her  old  enemy.  In  graver  moments  she  said  that 
she  must  know  if  he  lived. 

She  slept  upon  the  third  night  with  this  reso- 
lution of  sacrifice  as  her  solace.  The  crisis  of  her 
life  had  been  so  prolonged,  that  any  course  which 
finally  would  determine  its  issues  could  not  fail 
to  be  welcome  to  her.  In  her  dreams  she  took 
the  resolution  anew ;  and  so  upheld  it  that  she 


THE  VISION  243 

found  herself  alone  in  London  again  in  the  old 
house  in  Oxford  Street ;  and  there  she  waged  the 
war  of  existence,  as  she  had  waged  it  in  the  weary 
years,  without  hope  or  ambition,  or  even  conso- 
lation of  her  art. 

It  was  an  odd  dream,  and  when  she  waked 
from  sleep  and  knew  that  she  was  still  in  the 
grand  bedroom  of  the  chateau,  and  could  see  the 
moonlight  shining  upon  the  gardens,  the  reality 
was  the  harder  to  face,  the  sacrifice  seemed 
greater  than  any  she  could  contemplate.  "When 
she  slept  for  the  second  time,  her  dream  carried 
her  to  the  woods  about  the  house ;  and  she 
walked  there,  alone,  from  lake  to  lake  of  the 
golden  light ;  and  all  the  gnarled  trunks  were  as 
mighty  shadows  stretching  out  their  arms  to  her ; 
and  in  the  heart  of  the  thickets  the  silver  beams 
showed  her  bowers  as  of  some  fairy  land,  and  all 
the  figures  of  the  children's  books. 

Here  she  would  have  rested  awhile,  but,  even 
as  she  stood,  a  hand  touched  hers,  and  led  her 
onward  until  a  white  mist,  as  of  silver  spray,  rose 
up  above  the  hollow  of  the  glade,  and  the  forest 
scene  was  hidden  from  her  sight.  For  a  moment 
of  time  a  gentle  breeze  of  night  scattered  the 
mist,  and  permitted  the  vision  of  the  dream  to 
torment  her.  She  perceived  two  figures  in  the 
glade,  and  one  was  the  figure  of  Jerome.  Then 
she  knew  that  she  had  come  to  the  scene  of  the 


244 

duel,  and  a  great  impulse  to  run  there  and  to 
throw  herself  at  her  lover's  feet  would  have  pre- 
vailed but  for  the  ghostly  hand,  which  held  her 
to  the  place.  In  vain  she  listened  for  any  sound 
of  voices  in  the  hollow,  even  for  the  sound  of  one 
blade  of  steel  upon  another;  but  the  silence 
of  the  fuller  night  prevailed ;  and  as  she  stood, 
trembling  and  afraid,  the  curtain  of  the  mist  was 
raised  for  a  second  time,  and  she  beheld  a  man 
lying  prone  upon  the  grass,  and  she  knew  that  he 
was  dead.  But  the  face  of  the  man  was  hidden 
from  her,  and  while  she  strove  with  all  her 
strength  to  release  herself  from  the  grip  of  the 
hand  which  restrained  her,  she  awoke,  and  the 
rays  of  the  morning  sun  were  shining  full  upon 
her  face. 


CHAPTEE  XXVIII 

IN  THE  HOLLOW  OF  THE  GLADE 

WITH  all  her  artistic  impulse  and  capacity  for 
deep  emotion,  Feo  believed  herself  to  be  above 
the  childish  superstitions  which  are  the  amuse- 
ment of  many  of  her  sisters ;  and  her  first  act 
upon  waking  was  to  laugh  at  her  dream,  and  to 
run  to  the  window  to  drink  in  a  full  breath  of 
the  invigorating  breeze  of  day,  and  there  to  tell 
herself  she  would  be  a  child  to  give  any  heed  to 
that  which  sleep  had  compelled  her  to  suffer. 
All  that  woodland  scene  waking  now  to  the  her- 
alds of  the  sun,  the  great  domed  hills  created  out 
of  the  scattered  vapours  and  the  uplifted  clouds, 
the  roses  diademed  with  dew,  the  wood  bird's 
tuneful  note,  were  a  mock  upon  her  dream.  Nev- 
ertheless, the  reality  of  the  impression  it  had  left 
was  not  to  be  avoided.  Standing  there  at  her 
window,  she  could  recall  every  incident,  even  the 
most  trifling,  of  the  vision  she  had  seen.  The 
glade,  the  shadowy  figures,  the  hand  which  held 
her  back,  the  curtain  of  mist,  before  all  the  dead 
man  upon  the  ground — she  beheld  these  things 
again,  and  they  chilled  the  new  courage  which 

245 


246  FfiO 

the  sun  had  given  her.  How,  she  asked,  if  this 
were  one  of  those  dreams  in  which  sleep  had  car- 
ried the  first  message  of  truth,  and  day  had  vin- 
dicated the  night  ?  And  who  was  the  man  who 
lay  dead  in  the  hollow  of  the  lake — the  man 
whose  figure  had  been  hidden  by  another,  whose 
face  she  might  not  look  upon?  As  in  some 
weird  inspiration,  she  seemed  to  read  a  truth. 
Jerome  was  dead.  Because  of  his  death  she 
dreamed.  She  would  hear  the  story  that  very 
morning.  Of  death  alone  such  a  dream  could 
speak. 

Very  quietly,  yet  with  beating  heart  and  dry, 
parched  lips,  she  began  to  dress  herself.  She 
would  not  repeat  her  arguments,  for  they  seemed 
to  her  to  be  final.  Jerome  had  met  Otto  Lam- 
berg  in  the  glade  of  the  woods,  and  had  been 
killed  there.  She  dared  not  ask  herself  what 
such  a  tragedy  really  meant  to  her.  Her  strength 
and  clarity  of  purpose  increased  with  her  appre- 
hensions. Never  once  now  did  she  pause  to  say 
that  all  this  was  childish  fear,  to  be  forgotten 
when  the  hour  of  it  had  passed.  That,  which 
was  but  assumption  at  first,  became  conviction 
beyond  question  with  every  minute  of  delay. 
Jerome  was  dead.  She  knew  the  manner  of  his 
death.  He  had  died  because  of  his  great  love  for 
her.  A  thousand  times  was  she  alone  now.  His 
farewell  to  her  upon  that  sunny  morning,  when 


IN  THE  HOLLOW  OF  THE  GLADE    247 

they  had  carried  her  to  the  gardens,  was  the  last 
word  she  would  hear  from  his  lips.  This  dream 
of  night  was  the  inheritance  of  her  love,  the 
harvest  of  her  years  of  sorrow. 

It  was  very  early  in  the  morning  then,  and 
even  the  gardeners  had  not  come  out  of  their 
cottages.  The  chateau  itself  gave  echoes  of  her 
footsteps  when  she  descended  the  great  staircase 
and  drew  back  the  bolts  of  the  folding  doors. 
Dazzling  particles  of  golden  dust  hung  in  the 
path  of  the  sunbeams.  Forgotten  things  of  yes- 
terday were  littered  about  the  hall  and  the  rooms 
opening  from  it.  She  could  see  the  open  piano 
in  the  darkened  boudoir,  with  the  very  music  she 
had  sung  last  night.  A  hound  stretched  himself 
as  she  came  down,  and  approached  her  fawningly. 
The  sound  of  the  opening  doors  echoed  through 
the  silent  corridors  as  the  doors  of  a  prison  rust- 
ing upon  their  hinges.  Outside  in  the  sunshine 
she  breathed  a  full  breath  for  the  first  time. 
Under  other  circumstances  the  joy  of  that  hour 
had  been  to  her  as  riches  from  the  treasury  of 
being ;  but  to-day  she  did  not  know  that  the  sun 
shone,  or  that  dew  sparkled  upon  the  flowers. 
She  must  go  down  to  the  glade,  must  destroy  the 
impression  the  dream  had  left.  If  Jerome  were 
dead,  none  should  keep  the  truth  from  her.  And 
yet  she  could  say  in  the  same  breath  that  the  truth 
was  already  known,  for  sleep  had  betrayed  it. 


248  FfiO 

A  stable  boy  was  busy  in  the  stables  when  she 
knocked  timidly  at  the  door,  and  he  rubbed  his 
sleepy  eyes  and  stared  long  at  her  when  she 
asked  him  to  saddle  Christobel,  and  to  bring  the 
mare  out  immediately. 

"  I  am  going  out  for  a  little  ride,"  she  said  ; 
"  Mademoiselle  Victorine  will  follow  me  directly 
she  is  dressed.  We  do  not  want  any  one  with 
us,  for  we  shall  not  leave  the  park.  Be  quick, 
please,  for  I  must  not  catch  cold." 

The  boy  said,  "  Certainly,  mademoiselle,"  and 
began  to  busy  himself  with  the  bridle.  She 
thought  that  the  minutes  of  waiting  were  an 
age.  When  the  horse  was  ready,  and  she  sprung 
to  the  saddle,  she  used  her  whip  almost  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life.  She  must  know— must— 
must.  The  fresh  air  intoxicated  her  with  a 
feverish  impulse  to  settle  the  dreadful  doubt 
upon  the  instant.  In  her  heart  of  hearts  she 
believed  that  a  dead  man  lay  even  then  in  the 
glade.  The  willing  horse  could  not  keep  pace 
with  her  desire  to  know.  It  was  a  mad  gallop, 
a  wild  ride  across  the  spongy,  yielding  turf,— 
hither,  thither ;  for  she  had  no  sure  knowledge 
where'  to  turn,  or  how  most  quickly  to  find  the 
glade  of  her  dreams. 

The  vision  had  shown  h^r  a  lake  with  an 
avenue  leading  up  to  it ;  and,  upon  the  left  hand 
of  the  avenue,  a  wooded  hollow.  She  was  sure 


IN  THE  HOLLOW  OF  THE  GLADE    249 

that  she  had  ridden  with  Yictorine  to  the  scene 
of  the  tragedy  she  had  witnessed  in  her  dream  ; 
but  now,  being  abroad  in  the  park,  she  had  no 
certain  guide,  no  landmark  which  would  enable 
her  to  identify  the  place.  Twice  she  skirted  the 
entire  eastern  wall  of  the  outer  grounds,  but 
could  espy  neither  a  lake  nor  the  avenue  by 
which  it  was  to  be  approached.  Keining  in  her 
good  horse  at  last,  she  quitted  the  woods  of  the 
chateau  at  their  farthest  extremity,  and  struck 
the  road  to  Boveresse. 

The  hollow  lay  beyond  the  gates,  it  must  lie 
there  ;  sleep  had  not  deceived  her,  for  she  could 
remember  distinctly  the  day  when  she  and  Yic- 
torine had  stood  by  a  silent  pool  to  watch  the 
dog's-eared  lilies  floating  upon  its  unruffled  wa- 
ters, and  the  great  carp  asleep  in  the  sunshine. 
That  pool  she  would  discover  again.  She  knew 
that  the  quest  of  it  was  folly ;  but  went  there, 
nevertheless,  with  beating  heart,  and  hands  that 
trembled  upon  her  reins. 

There  were  few  upon  the  road :  an  old  priest 
going  up  to  the  hills  to  say  mass  for  the  shep- 
herds ;  a  lad  tending  oxen ;  some  big-limbed 
women  on  their  way  to  market ;  a  sleepy  wag- 
goner with  a  great  load  of  hay.  They  gave  her 
"  Good-day  "  as  she  .passed  them,  and  turned  their 
heads  to  watch  that  graceful  figure  which  seemed 
poised  upon  the  horse  as  a  fragile  burden  scarce 


250  FfiO 

to  be  reckoned  with.  "  Mademoiselle  from  Eng- 
land," they  said,  "  she  rides  early  ;  but  then,  we 
have  heard  the  story."  The  priest  alone  was 
troubled  to  see  her  there.  "  If  that  rascal  Belard 
has  not  lied,  she  knows  what  is  to  happen  to-day, 
and  is  going  to  prevent  it,"  he  said  to  himself ; 
and  then  he  added,  "  Well,  it  is  not  my  affair," 
and  went  on  towards  his  little  wooden  church 
high  up  on  the  grassy  slopes  of  the  mountain 
pastures.  But  Feo  remained  unconscious  of  the 
admiration  and  of  the  good  priest's  doubt.  She 
could  discern  the  red  roofs  of  Boveresse  now — 
even  the  little  railway  station;  and  in  one  of 
those  curious  reactions  of  the  mind  which  the 
most  trivial  circumstance  may  provoke,  she  lived 
again  for  an  instant  through  that  hour  of  peril 
when  she  had  leaped  from  the  train  and  had 
heard  the  voices  upon  the  embankment  and  seen 
the  torches  of  the  villagers.  It  was  the  sensation 
of  a  moment,  but  very  real  while  it  endured. 
When  she  had  forgotten  it,  she  was  at  the  turn 
of  the  road  which  led  up  through  the  gorge  of 
the  cliff ;  and  there  she  found,  not  the  glade  of 
her  sleep,  nor  any  figures  of  the  mist,  but  a  car- 
riage lacking  a  wheel,  and  a  white-haired  old 
gentleman,  who  stood  at  the  roadside,  surveying 
the  wreck  of  his  equipage,  and  remained  quite 
deaf  to  the  profuse  apologies  of  his  coachman  and 
the  assurances  that  all  would  be  well  presently. 


IN  THE  HOLLOW  OF  THE  GLADE    251 


reined  in  her  horse  —  for  the  carriage  was 
blocking  the  whole  road  —  and  regarded  the  scene 
with  not  a  little  amusement.  The  old  gentleman, 
who  did  not  appear  to  be  hurt,  was  so  very  good 
humoured  at  it  all,  the  coachman  so  much  dis- 
tressed, that  she  wished  she  had  been  an  artist  to 
sketch  the  group  as  it  stood.  For  a  space  the 
whole  object  of  her  excursion  was  forgotten  ; 
she  came  down  to  earth,  as  it  were,  before  this 
moment  of  jest,  and  could  laugh  with  the  others 
at  the  coachman's  protests.  When  the  white- 
haired  old  man  lifted  his  hat  and  spoke  to  her,  it 
seemed  the  most  natural  thing  for  him  to  do. 
She  wondered  only  that  he  should  have  recog- 
nised her  nationality  and  addressed  her  in  fluent 
English,  for  it  was  evident  that  he  was  not  an 
Englishman. 

"  A  thousand  apologies,"  he  said,  "  but  I  fear 
that  our  carriage  is  in  your  way." 

She  answered  frankly. 

"  Not  at  all,  thank  you.  One  way  is  as  good 
as  another  to  me."  And  then  she  added,  "  I  see 
that  you  have  had  an  accident." 

The  coachman,  who  did  not  understand  her, 
and  thought  she  was  reflecting  upon  his  carriage, 
burst  into  a  very  torrent  of  protest. 

"It  is  a  good  carriage,  mademoiselle.  The 
Avheel  has  come  off.  Is  that  anything  to  com- 
plain of  ?  Maitre  Jonart  at  Neufchatel,  he  mado 


252  FfiO 

the  carriage ;  a\l  the  wheels  will  come  off  some- 
times. You  cannot  help  it."  And  then  he  re- 
turned to  his  exclamations.  Mother  of  God, 
was  he  to  be  blamed  because  this  wheel  came 
off?  There  would  be  a  new  wheel  presently. 
He  was  going  to  run  back  to  the  village.  He 
would  find  a  wheel  somewhere.  Monsieur  would 
condescend  to  rest  upon  the  bank  a  moment. 
These  little  things  happened  every  day.  It  was 
a  good  carriage — a  better  carriage  now  with 
three  wheels  than  any  in  Pontarlier.  They  shake 
your  bones  there ;  you  rattle  like  a  dice-box.  In 
his  carriage  you  did  not  rattle  even  with  three 
wheels. 

There  had  been  two  passengers  in  the  landau, 
and  one  of  them,  a  slightly  built  young  man  with 
a  soldier's  air,  who  paid  a  great  deference  to  his 
fellow-traveller,  now  held  the  horses  and  tethered 
them,  at  the  roadside  while  the  loquacious  coach- 
man set  off  to  Boveresse  for  the  necessary  wheel- 
wright. The  old  gentleman,  meanwhile,  began 
to  question  Feo. 

" I  think  that  I  shall  walk  up,"  he  said ;  "it 
cannot  be  far  from  here.  Perhaps  you  know  the 
house,  mademoiselle.  I  am  going  to  the  Chateau 
de  Joux." 

She  laughed  at  the  question. 

"I  live  there,"  she  exclaimed;  "it  is  a  mile 
from  here  on  the  hill-side." 


IN  THE  HOLLOW  OF  THE  GLADE  253 

"  Then  you  will  show  me  the  way  ?  " 

"  Oh,  of  course,  if  you  are  not  afraid  to 
walk!" 

"  I  like  nothing  better  at  this  hour,  and  in  this 
company." 

"But  they  don't  expect  you,  and  you  won't 
find  anybody  up  except  the  servants." 

"  More  than  sufficient  to  make  me  a  cup  of 
coffee,  mademoiselle." 

He  turned  to  address  a  word  to  his  companion, 
who  answered  him  deferentially. 

"  You  will  find  me  in  the  gardens  of  the  house 
with  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "  when  the  carriage 
is  ready,  we  will  go  on  to  Pontarlier." 

"Certainly,  Count;  I  will  hurry  as  much  as 
possible." 

Feo  caught  the  word  Count,  and  looked  more 
curiously  at  the  man  who  was  so  called.  He  was 
a  fine,  upright  old  fellow,  with  a  soldier's  car- 
riage, and  iron-grey  hair  and  bushy  whiskers  in 
the  Austrian  fashion.  His  eyes  betrayed  a  ready 
love  of  humour,  and  were  kindly,  she  thought. 
His  manner  towards  her  was  that  of  one  accus- 
tomed to  command  even  women ;  but  with  a 
grace  and  courtliness  which  made  such  com- 
mands welcome.  She  concluded,  almost  from 
the  first  moment  of  meeting  him,  that  he  was 
the  new  envoy  sent  by  the  Archduke  Frederick 
to  Pontarlier ;  and  the  humour  of  that  encounter 


254:  FfiO 

drove  from  her  head  all  remembrance  of  the 
foolish  errand  which  had  carried  her  from  the 
chateau  at  such  an  hour  of  the  day. 

"I  suppose  you  travelled  by  the  night  ex- 
press," she  said,  as  he  began  to  walk  briskly  at 
her  side  upon  the  white  road  to  the  house. 

"  Yes,  by  the  night  express.  I  made  a  detour 
to  Neufchatel  that  I  might  see  Madame  la 
Comtesse.  I  have  heard  of  you,  mademoiselle ; 
you  are  the  young  English  lady  staying  at  the 
house." 

The  declaration  was  quite  frank.  She  met  it 
with  like  candour. 

"  And  you  are  the  Count  of  Travna,"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

He  nodded  his  head,  but  turned  from  the 
question. 

"You  English  change  your  habits  when  you 
are  abroad,"  he  said.  "  In  London  I  find  that 
everybody  begins  to  wake  up  when  I  wish  to  go 
to  bed.  I  was  once  in  your  Rotten  Row  at  five 
o'clock,  and  the  newspapers  spoke  of  it.  "When 
a  man  gets  up  at  five  o'clock  in  Vienna,  we  do 
not  mention  it  in  the  newspapers.  You  are  fond 
of  the  country,  Miss  de  Berthier  ?  " 

"  So  fond  that  I  would  never  go  into  a  town 
again  if  I  might  decide." 

"  An  odd  ambition  at  your  age.  Most  young 
ladies,  I  find,  are  not  happy  unless  there  are 


IN  THE  HOLLOW  OF  THE  GLADE    255 

bonnet-shops.  Frankly,  I  myself  see  nothing  in 
all  this — mountains,  meadows,  rivers.  There  are 
not  men  here.  Life  for  me  begins  where  men 
meet." 

"  You  are  staunch  at  least,  sir.  Men  do  not 
always  believe  so  much  in  men.  And  as  for 
women,  they  do  not  believe  in  them  at  all." 

"  Nevertheless,  they  are  influenced  by  them." 

"  When  it  flatters  their  vanity.  Tell  a  man 
that  your  opinion  is  really  his,  and  he  will  think 
that  he  is  clever.  Try  to  persuade  him  to 
change  what  he  calls  his  mind,  and  he  will  hate 
you." 

The  Count  smiled. 

"  I  am  sure  that  our  opinions  will  agree,"  he 
exclaimed  good-humouredly. 

"In  that  case  we  shall  begin  to  quarrel  at 
once,"  she  answered  with  assumed  flippancy. 

He  was  amused  at  her  reply,  and  stood  a  mo- 
ment to  survey  the  glorious  valley  below  them. 
She,  on  her  part,  realised  in  a  vague  way  that 
they  were  opponents,  and  that  her  wits  must  be 
pitted  against  his  for  a  stake  she  could  not  esti- 
mate or  define.  The  antagonism  pleased  her. 
This  man,  at  any  rate,  was  one  whose  honesty 
she  might  not  doubt.  There  was  a  breadth,  a 
dignity  of  manner  and  speech  which  won  upon 
her  homage. 

"  It  is  very  early,  as  you  say,  Miss  de  Berthier, 


256  FfiO 

and  I  am  afraid  that  I  shall  be  a  nuisance  to 
your  friends  at  the  chateau.  You  will  befriend 
me,  I  beg,  and  regard  me  as  the  spoil  of  your 
morning's  excursion." 

"  Am  I  to  carry  you  in  as  a  prisoner  of  war, 
then?" 

"  As  a  willing  prisoner,  if  you  please." 

"  You  are  staying  at  Pontarlier  long  ?  " 

"As  long  as  circumstances  demand  my  pres- 
ence, but  at  the  chateau  no  more  than  an  hour." 

She  nodded  her  head  and  began  to  close  her 
hands  a  little  nervously  upon  her  reins.  A  mood 
defiant  could  not  be  suppressed. 

"  You  have  come  to  see  Prince  Jerome  ?  "  she 
exclaimed. 

"  Exactly ;  you  guess  my  intentions  perfectly. 
I  have  come  to  see  Prince  Jerome,  and  to  accom- 
pany him  to  Vienna." 

Her  face  clouded.  She  looked  away  across  the 
valley  to  the  mists  looming  as  a  blue  cloud  above 
Pontarlier.  In  that  instant  the  purport  of  her 
ride,  the  message  of  the  dream,  recurred  to  her 
with  a  new  intensity. 

"  I  pray  God  that  you  will  find  him,"  she  ex- 
claimed almost  involuntarily. 

She  had  not  meant  to  utter  her  thoughts  aloud 
in  this  way ;  but  so  sudden  was  the  recurrence 
of  the  idea  which  had  driven  her  from  the  house, 
that  the  confession  prevailed  above  her  will. 


IN  THE  HOLLOW  OF  THE  GLADE  257 

"When  next  she  looked  at  her  companion,  she  ob- 
served that  he  smiled  no  more,  but  stood,  very 
white  and  grave  and  hesitating.  Her  defending 
laugh  could  not  efface  the  impression  which  the 
foolish  exclamation  had  created. 

"  Miss  de  Berthier,"  he  said,  "  I  trust  there  is 
no  ill  news  of  the  Prince  ?  " 

"  None  that  I  am  aware  of." 

"  Forgive  me,  your  words  are  a  little  enigmat- 
ical. Why  should  you  hope  that  I  will  find  him 
at  Pontarlier  ?  Is  there  any  doubt  of  it  ?  " 

She  sighed. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  answered  wearily.  "  Am 
I  his  keeper,  then?  It  is  ridiculous  to  ask  me 
such  questions." 

For  a  little  way  they  went  on  together  in 
silence.  The  road  was  arched  over  by  trees  at 
this  place,  dipping  into  a  hollow  of  the  glade  and 
bordering  upon  a  little  lake  which  shone  clear 
and  translucent,  in  the  shade  of  the  umbrageous 
leaves.  Beyond  the  pool  a  vista  of  thicket  and 
hollow,  and  an  avenue  of  chestnut-trees  opened 
up  to  show,  remoter  still,  the  meadows  of  the 
valley  and  the  wooden  spire  of  a  village  church. 
Here,  as  by  some  subtle,  compelling  agency,  Feo 
checked  her  horse  abruptly.  The  scene  of  her 
dream  rose  up  before  her  as  by  a  magic  touch. 
She  lived  in  the  sunshine  the  vision  of  the  dark- 
ness. Neither  speaking  nor  moving,  she  Avatched 


258  FfiO 

the  figures,  and  saw  that  truth  was  the  message 
of  the  night.  For,  all  unconsciously  she  had 
stumbled  upon  the  scene  of  the  duel,  and  those 
that  moved  before  her  were  men  whose  gestures 
she  could  witness  and  whose  voices  she  must 
hear.  Will  as  she  might  to  laugh  at  it,  she  knew 
that  Jerome  was  here  in  the  hollow  of  the  glade 
as  she  had  beheld  him  in  her  sleep.  And  there 
were  other  figures,  distinct  and  outstanding  upon 
the  verdant  green.  She  recognised  Otto  Lam- 
berg,  and  perceived  that  he  held  a  pistol  in  his 
hand.  Another,  whose  face  she  could  not  see, 
was  talking  to  Jerome.  The  sun  made  a  silhou- 
ette of  the  figures  and  cast  long  shadows  on  the 
grass.  She  followed  them  as  one  robbed  of  all 
power  to  think  or  act  or  turn  her  eyes  away. 
The  dread  of  the  moment  surpassed  all  that  she 
had  suffered  since  the  first  hour  of  that  enduring 
intrigue. 

Count  Travna  had  lagged  behind  as  they  en- 
tered the  avenue  ;  but  now,  seeing  her  white  face 
and  frightened  eyes,  he  hastened  to  her  side,  and, 
in  his  turn,  looked  down  upon  the  fateful  scene 
in  the  hollow.  He  could  not  comprehend  it  im- 
mediately, nor  recognise  those  who  played  so 
strange  a  part  in  that  place ;  but  when  a  minute 
had  passed,  and  the  sun  shone  out  again  to  show 
the  faces  of  the  men,  he  uttered  a  startled  ex- 
clamation and  staggered  back  against  her  horse. 


IN  THE  HOLLOW  OF  THE  GLADE    259 

"  My  God ! "  lie  cried, "  they  are  going  to  fire ! " 
Her  answer  was  a  whisper  inaudible.  In  her 
heart  she  believed  that  this  was  the  hour  of  Je- 
rome's death.  The  longing  to  run  to  him,  to 
shield  him,  became  in  itself  an  agony.  As  it  had 
befallen  in  the  dream,  so  she  knew  that  it  must 
be  now.  The  unendurable  suspense  of  that  mo- 
ment was  never  to  be  forgotten  while  life  re- 
mained to  her.  Her  very  heart  seemed  to  stand 
still  when  the  men  turned  to  face  each  other, 
and  the  sunbeams  glinted  upon  the  steel  barrels 
of  their  pistols.  Jerome  would  die.  She  thought 
already  to  see  his  body  prone  upon  the  sward  as 
she  had  seen  it  in  her  sleep. 

She  thought  that  he  must  die  indeed,  yet  no 
word  of  fear  escaped  her.  The  Count  bore  wit- 
ness afterwards  she  sat  with  dry  eyes  and  lips 
close  shut,  and  hands  that  closed  upon  her  reins 
tenaciously.  All  else — the  hour,  the  man  at  her 
side,  the  hazard  of  her  own  life — were  forgotten 
in  that  enthralling  doubt.  As  one  gazing  en- 
tranced upon  some  scene  of  drama,  she  watched 
the  moving  figures,  she  heard  the  voices  of  the 
seconds — the  command  to  fire.  The  leaping 
flame  following  upon  the  word,  the  loud  report 
of  a  pistol  as  it  echoed  through  the  woods  and 
rolled  up  to  the  hills  above  them,  found  her  still 
voiceless.  She  did  not  heed  the  Count  when  his 
broken  exclamations  told  her  the  story.  Jerome 


260  FfiO 

had  fired  deliberately  at  the  sky  above  him. 
The  pistol  in  the  hand  of  Otto  Lamberg  was  still 
raised.  She  waited  for  the  report  of  it  as  for  a 
message  of  death  inevitable.  But  the  message 
lagged.  For  an  instant  the  man  stood  irresolute. 
Then  he  threw  the  weapon  upon  the  grass  and 
walked  quickly  from  the  place. 

"  He  has  done  well,"  said  the  Count  in  a  low 
voice ;  and  so  he  turned  to  her  for  the  first  time 
since  they  had  entered  the  avenue. 

She  did  not  answer  him.  Her  eyes  were  still 
fixed  upon  the  hollow.  A  strange  light  shone  in 
them.  The  man  wondered  at  her  calmness,  for 
drops  of  sweat  stood  upon  his  forehead,  and  his 
hand  was  shaking. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  "  the  silly  business  is  done 
with.  These  two  angry  fellows  will  now  go 
away  to  tell  their  friends  that  honour  is  satisfied. 
It  appears  they  have  amused  you,  Miss  de  Ber- 
thier." 

The  blood  rushed  to  her  cheeks. 

"  Amused  me ! "  she  cried,  and  the  ring  of  her 
voice  was  as  some  command  to  silence,  almost  to 
awe.  The  Count  flinched  at  her  glance.  He 
stammered  his  apology. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  said  quickly.  "  Forget  that 
I  have  spoken.  Here  is  my  carriage ;  perhaps 
you  would  be  glad  to  let  the  lieutenant  lead  your 
horse  and  to  ride  back  to  the  chateau  with  me." 


IN  THE  HOLLOW  OF  THE  GLADE    261 

She  did  not  hear  him.  Her  horse,  taking  ad- 
vantage of  the  loosened  rein,  began  to  walk 
briskly  up  the  hill,  while  she  sat  as  one  in  a 
trance.  The  Count  watched  her  until  the  bend 
of  the  road  hid  her  from  his  sight. 

"  There  is  a  woman  who  knows  how  to  suffer," 
he  said. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE   COUNT  OF  TRAVNA 

FEO  rode  her  horse  to  the  stable  door,  but  did 
not  return  at  once  to  the  chateau.  She  had  a 
vague  dread  of  hearing  any  voice  or  of  being 
compelled  to  answer  any  question  that  might  be 
put  to  her.  The  spell  of  the  scene  she  had  wit- 
nessed in  the  glade  was  still  upon  her.  The  roll- 
ing report  of  the  pistol  yet  echoed  in  her  ears ; 
the  figures  of  the  drama  returned  to  act  their 
parts  anew  and  to  compel  her  again  to  suif  er  that 
agonising  suspense  which  had  so  tormented  her 
in  sleep  and  waking.  In  vain  she  told  herself 
that  Jerome  lived,  that  the  danger  was  no  more, 
that  all  else  was  folly  beyond  words.  She  could 
not  escape  that  penalty  exacted  from  shattered 
nerves  and  imagination  excited  by  long  hours  of 
uncertainty. 

There  were  many  about  the  grounds  of  the 
house  now — gardeners  and  grooms  and  maids 
exchanging  a  word  with  the  stable-boys.  She 
avoided  them,  and  ran  to  that  little  bower  where, 
but  a  few  days  ago,  Otto  Lamberg  had  come  to 
her  with  so  plausible  a  tale.  Perchance  she 

262 


THE  COUNT  OF  TRAVNA          263 

thought  that  Jerome  would  pass  by  on  his  way 
back  to  Pontarlier ;  or  would  even  ride  in  at  the 
gates  to  tell  her  the  story.  A  strange  longing 
to  meet  him  began  to  mingle  with  those  haunting 
ideas  which  forbade  her  to  be  grateful  to  reality. 
His  life  had  been  given  to  her,  she  said.  The 
jeopardy  of  death,  it  may  be,  had,  in  a  measure, 
been  hidden  from  her  by  that  all-absorbing  quest 
of  truth ;  but  now  that  he  lived,  she  realised  it 
more  truly  ;  and  could  ask  herself  what  his  death 
would  have  meant  to  one  who  had  been  willing 
to  touch  the  nadir  of  poverty  and  of  exile  for  his 
sake. 

And  this  realisation  preyed  upon  the  very 
heart  of  her  womanhood.  In  the  gladness  of 
truth,  she  could  weep  for  that  which  might  have 
been,  but  was  not. 

Jerome  lived,  indeed — but  she  knew  that, 
henceforth,  he  might  not  live  for  her.  The  crisis 
of  those  troubled  weeks  had  passed  at  last,  and 
had  left  to  her  a  future  without  hope,  a  path 
winding  and  tortuous  and  offering  no  sure  haven 
even  from  the  ultimate  poverty  she  had  always 
foreseen  and  dreaded.  In  a  few  hours  the  man, 
for  whose  safety  she  had  prayed  so  ardently, 
would  be  on  his  way  to  Yienna.  The  hospitality 
of  the  chateau  would  be  remembered  among  the 
sunny  days  of  an  irrevocable  past.  She  would 
set  out  to  London — God  knew  to  what  destiny. 


264  FfiO 

It  was  a  strange  medley  of  nervous  excitement, 
of  apprehension  for  herself,  and  of  a  woman's 
gladness  for  the  life  given  back  to  her  which  oc- 
cupied that  hour  of  self -communing  in  the  arbour. 
From  her  place  there  she  could  hear  the  commo- 
tion which  the  Count's  arrival  had  already  caused 
—the  ringing  of  bells,  the  scampering  of  men, 
the  shouts  in  the  stable-yards,  the  grooms  can- 
tering off  to  the  villages ;  but  she  was  content  to 
play  no  part  in  that  affair.  If  her  own  inclina- 
tion had  been  consulted,  she  would  have  avoided 
the  courtly  old  soldier  who  had  been  her  friend 
of  the  morning.  The  plain  truth,  that  he  had 
come  to  the  chateau  as  an  envoy  from  Jerome's 
father,  made  it  impossible,  in  her  better  judg- 
ment, that  she  should  meet  him.  To  plead  her 
own  case,  or  utter  any  word  in  defence  of  her 
own  actions,  would,  she  thought,  be  the  best  title 
these  people  could  have  to  their  treatment  of  her. 
She  wished  almost  that  she  might  leave  the 
house  upon  the  instant ;  and,  going  hence,  begin 
at  once  that  battle  with  destiny  which  now  was 
inevitable. 

The  resolution  was  heroic;  but  she  knew  its 
impossibility;  and,  anon,  there  came  to  her  a 
woman's  curiosity  to  learn  of  that  which  was 
passing  in  the  chateau.  Determined  still  to  avoid 
the  Count,  she  returned  to  the  gardens  and  found 
Victorine,  who  ran  to  her  joyously,  and  began 


THE  COUNT  OF  TKAVNA          265 

to  tell  her  all  the  news,  breathlessly,  as  was  her 
wont. 

"  Feo — where  have  you  been  ?  Ma  tante  is  in 
a  dreadful  state.  You  are  to  come  in  at  once 
and  see  him.  He  is  a  great  big  man,  and  has 
gone  upstairs  to  brush  his  whiskers ;  Jerome  is 
expected  to  breakfast.  He  has  promised  us.  His 
English  friend  came  to  say  so.  If  you  could  see 
his  English  friend !  I  shall  forget  Paul  while  he 
is  here!  Oh!  I  must  tell!  All  the  silver  is  at 
the  bankers.  Ma  tante  is  furious,  and  we  are  to 
help  to  cut  the  flowers,  and  it  is  to  be  magnifi- 
cent. Feo,  you  must  come  in ! " 

She  babbled  on,  restless  and  delighted  with 
this  hour  of  change  and  chatter.  Feo  went  with 
hesitating  steps  to  the  house ;  for  it  seemed  im- 
possible now  to  avoid  the  encounter  she  had 
dreaded.  In  the  salon  upon  the  first  floor  she 
found  madame  and  the  Count ;  and  so  cordial 
was  the  old  soldier's  greeting  that  her  resolution 
was  forgotten  in  her  gratitude. 

"  Ha ! "  he  cried,  "  here  is  my  little  companion 
at  last.  I  was  beginning  to  think  that  she  did 
not  wish  to  see  me  again." 

"  Tell  the  Count  how  ill  you  have  been,  child 
— he  will  understand,"  exclaimed  madame  in  her 
zeal  to  explain  away  all  shortcomings. 

Feo  answered  them  smilingly. 

"  How  easily  do  we  bear  the  misfortunes  of 


266  FfiO 

our  neighbours.  Is  the  Count  really  interested 
in  the  history  of  my  ailments  ?  " 

Count  Travna  put  a  chair  for  her  close  to  his 
own.  She  did  not  take  it. 

"I  have  been  telling  madam e  what  we  saw 
this  morning,"  he  said.  "I  have  been  saying 
that  my  young  companion  had  more  courage 
than  a  timid  old  man  who  has  been  at  twenty 
such  affairs." 

"  The  courage  of  ignorance,  Count — why  should 
I  have  been  afraid  ?  " 

Madame  interposed  in  a  reproachful  tone. 

"  Come,  my  dear,  do  not  speak  in  that  way. 
We  know  what  it  must  have  meant  to  you.  I 
am  sure  that  you  are  very  thankful." 

Feo  turned  over  a  page  of  music  on  the  piano 
near  her.  She  did  not  perceive  the  drift  of  the 
old  soldier's  question. 

"  I  am  glad,  of  course,  that  no  harm  came  to 
Prince  Jerome.  But  you  do  not  wish  me  to 
shout  it  from  the  housetops,  Count  ?  If  men  are 
willing  to  play  with  their  lives  in  this  way,  we 
are  not  their  guardians.  I  do  not  believe  in 
scenes,  and  I  shall  remain  unconverted." 

"  Exactly.  I  agree  with  your  philosophy,  but 
am  unable  to  practise  it,  as  you  were  the  witness." 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  I  was  far  too  much  occupied 
to  think  of  you  at  all!  If  anything  had  hap- 
pened to  Jerome " 


THE  COUNT  OF  TKAVNA          26Y 

She  stopped  abruptly,  conscious  of  a  betrayal 
which  she  had  wished  to  avoid.  The  Count,  in 
his  turn,  desired  to  help  her  in  the  difficulty. 

"  Let  us  forget  a  very  foolish  affair  and  thank 
God  that  no  harm  has  come  of  it.  We  are  not 
always  so  fortunate  in  Vienna,  where  the  price 
of  honour  is  something  more  than  a  prick  from  a 
rapier.  You  will  help  me  to  convince  the  Prince 
that  he  has  not  done  well,  Miss  de  Berthier.  I 
am  afraid  that  he  needs  some  good  advice." 

Feo  laughed. 

"That  will  be  a  new  role,  for  me,"  she  an- 
swered ;  "  and  where  is  the  man  who  practises  a 
woman's  philosophy?  Are  you  not  destroying 
our  ideals,  Count  ?  " 

Madame,  who  had  listened  to  them  with  a 
little  impatience,  made  a  brave  effort  to  be 
practical. 

"The  Count  has  come  here  to  see  you,  my 
dear.  It  is  a  long  way  from  Vienna,  and  we 
must  be  grateful  to  him." 

"Grateful!" 

"  And  what  else  should  we  be,  pray  ?  " 

"  He  is  a  friend  of  Jerome's." 

The  Count  answered  her. 

"  I  hope  so — and  a  friend  of  yours  when  you 
will  permit  me.  Madame  la  Comtesse  is  good 
enough  to  say  that  I  may  stay  at  the  chateau, 
until — well,  until  I  know  that  it  is  not  necessary 


268  FfiO 

to  stay  any  longer.  I  count  upon  your  friend 
ship  to  make  the  days  short." 

The  mood  defiant  came  upon  Feo  again. 

"  It  is  August,"  she  said  quietly.  "  I  believe 
that  the  sun  does  not  set  until  eight  o'clock, 
Count." 

Madame  raised  her  hands  in  awe,  but  the  old 
soldier  laughed  at  the  thrust. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  a  declared  enemy  is  always 
an  easy  fellow  to  deal  with.  We  shall  be  friends 
yet.  My  son  will  see  to  that." 

Feo  started. 

"Your  son!" 

"Yes,  my  son  the  Prince.  He  is  coming  up 
the  drive  now." 

Madame  clapped  her  hands  with  delight.  Feo 
was  still  looking  from  one  to  the  other  in  ques- 
tioning amazement  when  Jerome  entered  the 
room,  and  at  his  heels  there  walked  her  old 
friend,  Leslie  Drummond. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE   QUESTION 

DEJEJJNER  was  served  at  twelve  o'clock  in  the 
great  Hall  of  Mirrors,  a  vast  apartment  of  the 
chateau  which  had  not  been  used  three  times 
since  the  Empire  fell.  In  spite  of  madame's 
apprehensions,  the  fame  of  the  house  suffered 
nothing  from  that  display.  Exquisite  glass  and 
a  profusion  of  pure  white  flowers  atoned  for  the 
lamented  overplus  of  silver,  then  in  the  posses- 
sion of  the  family  bankers.  The  servants,  awak- 
ened to  new  energies  by  the  distinction  of  the 
guest,  went  deftly  to  their  work.  The  Archduke 
himself,  who  had  travelled  incognito  as  the  Count 
of  Travna,  and  was  still  thus  addressed,  sat  at 
the  head  of  the  table  by  madame's  side.  Jerome, 
a  little  restless  and  excited,  made  a  brave  effort 
to  conceal  his  anxiety  from  Feo.  Leslie  Drum- 
mond,  who  had  come  to  the  house  as  by  a  mira- 
cle, was  next  to  Yictorine,  and  already  teaching 
her  those  niceties  of  the  English  idiom  which 
prevail  in  University  towns.  But  the  oddity  of 
it,  Feo  said,  was  that  all  met  as  though  such  a 
gathering  had  been  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 

269 


world.  The  men  were  ignorant,  she  thought, 
that  their  secret  was  known. 

"You  did  not  tell  me  that  your  father  was 
coming  to-day,"  she  said  to  Jerome,  when  a  bab- 
ble of  conversation  permitted  her  to  ask  a  ques- 
tion. He  had  a  story  ready  for  her. 

"  My  father  affects  surprises.  "When  he  told 
me  that  he  meant  to  send  the  Count  of  Travna 
here,  I  imagined  that  he  would  come  himself. 
That's  a  little  weakness  for  everyday  drama 
which  is  characteristic  of  him.  You  will  like  my 
father,  Feo." 

"  Of  course  I  shall.  We  have  told  each  other 
already  that  we  are  enemies.  That  is  always  a 
good  beginning." 

And  then  she  asked,  "  And  Leslie,  is  he  here 
also  by  accident  ?  " 

Jerome  flushed.  He  was  not  accustomed  to 
prevaricate,  but  his  courage  was  worsted  by  the 
truth. 

"  He  came  down  from  Paris  because  I  asked 
him.  There's  no  one  here  that  I  know,  and  I 
wanted  a  friend's  advice.  When  you  introduced 
us  in  Paris  I  liked  him.  I  believe  he  was  in  love 
with  you  once,  Feo." 

"  He  loved  me  passionately,  with  the  devotion 
of  a  lifetime,  for  four-and-twenty  hours.  But  he 
is  a  good  friend.  And,  of  course,  he  advised  you 
wisely." 


THE    QUESTION  271 

Jerome  fidgeted  with  his  plate. 

"I  am  glad  that  my  father  has  come.  It's 
difficult  to  understand  people  when  they  are  a 
long  way  off.  I  was  getting  tired  of  writing 
letters,  and  meant  to  put  an  end  to  it.  I  dare- 
say your  friend  will  help  me  in  one  or  two  little 
things." 

"  One  or  two  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  you  must  see  that  there  is  a  great  deal 
to  be  done.  I  hope  you  will  be  nice  to  my 
father." 

"  "What  a  very  complimentary  hope !  I  ought 
to  be  tricked  out  in  ribbons  as  a  horse  at  a  fair. 
"Won't  you  lead  me  up  and  down,  dear,  and  say, 
'Here  is  lot  one'?" 

And  then  she  continued  in  a  low  voice  and 
petulantly  — 

"  How  can  I  be  other  than  I  am  ?  And  what 
does  it  matter  whether  I  am  nice  or  not  ?  You 
know  that  I  am  going  to  London — and  should 
have  gone  there  already  if  I  had  been  able." 

He  recognised  the  mood  and  would  not  strive 
to  combat  it.  Conversation  flagged,  and  Leslie 
Drummond  addressed  Feo  for  the  second  time 
since  he  had  come  to  the  house. 

"  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  what's  the  French  for 
'proctor,'  Feo.  I'm  trying  to  remember  that 
story  about  the  man  who  was  proctorised  for 
falling  into  the  gutter  at  Cambridge,  and  who 


272  FfiO 

said,  *  Save  the  others,  I  can  swim.'  Mademoi- 
selle doesn't  understand  a  word  of  it,  and  it's  the 
best  French,  too,  out  of  Henri  Bue's  eighteen- 
penny  primer." 

Victorine  laughed,  in  her  turn  failing  to  com- 
prehend more  than  a  few  words  of  the  question. 

"  He  has  been  telling  me  how  he  swam  a  river. 
I  love  swimming  when  you  can  have  fun  in  the 
water.  I  wish  you'd  interpret  for  us,  Feo.  It's 
like  being  in  a  deaf  and  dumb  asylum,  where  all 
the  mutes  can  hear  and  all  the  deaf  can  speak. 
Oh,  do  tell  him  that  I  swim ! " 

Feo  interpreted  laughingly. 

"  You  will  have  to  teach  Mr.  Drummond,"  she 
said.  "  I  am  sure  he  would  like  to  learn." 

And  then  to  Jerome  she  said  in  a  low  voice  — 

"  Behold  the  matron — I  believe  that  I  am  go- 
ing to  make  a  match.  What  is  it  in  women  that 
delights  them  when  they  can  make  two  people 
miserable  ?  Is  it  instinct  or  inherent  antipathy 
to  the  human  race  ?  " 

"  Neither.  It  is  the  desire  to  dispose  of  a  man 
for  whom  they  have  no  possible  use.  Men  are 
more  unselfish.  Their  capacity  for  admiring  a 
large  number  of  women  at  the  same  time  leads 
them  to  increase  their  amatory  assets  whenever 
possible.  You  don't  find  a  man  making  a  match 
unless  he  has  daughters  who  are  a  charge  upon 
the  estate.  He  regards  marriage  as  a  curtail- 


THE    QUESTION  273 

ment  of  possibilities.  And  then  his  efforts  are 
always  maladroit — he  grafts,  with  clumsy  fin- 
gers, a  rose  upon  thistles,  and  often  pricks  his 
hands." 

"  You  grant  nothing  to  a  woman's  sentiment, 
then?" 

"  Oh,  it  counts,  I  suppose !  And  there  is  always 
the  necessity  of  marrying  her  pretty  daughter 
before  the  age  of  comparisons.  Men  view  mar- 
riage from  the  purely  commercial  point  of  view. 
They  are  all  so  sensible — when  they  haven't  to 
marry  the  girl  themselves." 

She  wondered  at  the  flippancy  of  the  talk  upon 
such  a  day,  and  at  an  hour  momentous  for  them 
both.  That  grim  dawn,  all  the  intrigue  of  the 
terrible  weeks,  the  dark  shadow  of  her  own  fu- 
ture were  brushed  aside,  as  it  were,  that  these 
people  might  meet  in  the  common  way  of  life 
and  seem  to  have  no  other  interests  than  those 
of  the  uneventful  years.  "When,  at  last,  they 
rose,  and  Jerome  found  an  opportunity  to  speak 
a  graver  word  to  her,  she  was  tempted  almost  to 
answer  him  in  the  chatter  of  the  table. 

"  You  are  going  to  show  my  father  the  grounds, 
Feo.  You  know  what  that  means  ?  He  wishes 
to  speak  to  you,  and  you  owe  it  to  me  to  hear 
him.  What  you  say  to-day  may  help  us  or  in- 
jure us  for  the  rest  of  our  lives.  I  don't  ask 
you  to  make  any  excuse  or  to  argue  with  him. 


But  I  do  expect  you  to  convince  him  of  our 
sincerity." 

She  breathed  a  little  quickly,  for  the  prospect 
troubled  her. 

"A  man  does  not  believe  in  a  woman's  sin- 
cerity because  she  protests  it." 

"In  your  case,  yes.  No  one  could  be  with 
Feo  for  a  single  day  and  say  that  she  was  not 
sincere." 

"  You  compliment  me,  Jerome." 

He  bent  down  and  touched  her  pretty  hair 
with  his  lips. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  love  you." 

"  And  loving  me,  you  forgot  your  love  to-day." 

He  looked  into  her  eyes,  and  read  the  truth 
there. 

"You  know  that,  Feo?" 

"  I  know  it." 

"  And  being  reasonable,  you  understand  that  it 
was  inevitable.  He  forced  it  upon  me  because 
he  had  no  other  course.  They  would  have  told 
the  story  in  Vienna,  and  he  would  have  been 
hounded  out  of  the  regiment.  It  Avas  a  silly 
affair,  but  all  these  affairs  are  silly.  I  never 
meant  to  fire  at  him,  and  I  don't  believe  that 
he  meant  to  fire  at  me.  When  he  threw  his  pis- 
tol on  the  grass,  he  was  playing  for  promotion 
and  orders.  He's  a  shrewd  fellow,  is  Otto  Lam- 
berg;  but  I  shall  never  forgive  my  father  for 


THE    QUESTION  275 

sending  him  to  you.  You  must  be  more  merci- 
ful, Feo.  You  don't  know  how  thankful  I  was 
when  I  saw  that  it  was  all  over.  Cowardice  if 
you  like — but  then,  I  remembered  you.  I  saw 
your  face  all  the  time  I  was  on  the  ground. 
And  I  knew  how  glad  you'd  be  when  you  heard 
that  it  all  ended  in  smoke — as  it  should  have 
begun." 

"  God  knows  how  glad  I  was,"  she  said,  almost 
in  a  whisper. 

He  kissed  her  for  the  word,  and  then  followed 
the  others  to  the  garden. 

"  My  father  is  clothed  and  in  his  right  mind 
again,  or  he  would  not  be  here,"  he  said  as  they 
came  out  through  the  long  window  to  the  Italian 
terrace  upon  the  eastern  side  of  the  chateau ;  "  in 
three  days  we  shall  forget  all  this  and  be  on  our 
way  to  London.  Would  you  like  to  go  to  Lon- 
don, Feo  ?  " 

"I  am  going  there  to-morrow,"  she  said, — a 
word  of  true  intent  spoken  as  a  jest. 

"  You  are  not  well  enough,"  he  answered,  "and 
besides,  to-morrow  would  be  premature." 

She  sighed  wearily. 

"  You  know  that  I  must  go,"  she  said. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  of  the  sort — nor  does 
my  father.  Here  he  is  to  tell  you  so." 

The  Archduke  came  up  to  them  as  though  by 
accident,  and  began  to  walk  at  their  side.  Jerome 


276  FfiO 

turned  to  speak  to  madame,  who,  fortified  by  dog 
and  cushions  and  maid  attending,  was  enthroned 
already  in  her  great  arm-chair.  Yictorine  had 
taken  Leslie  Drummond  to  the  arbour,  and  was 
amusing  him  there  with  a  delicious  oration  in 
broken  English  and  excited  French.  But  Feo 
had  never  been  more  serious.  She  rebelled 
against  the  role  which  had  been  forced  upon  her. 
She  determined  that  she,  at  least,  would  utter  no 
word  which  should  seem  to  be  a  defence  of  her 

own  actions.     And  in  this  spirit  she  listened  to 

,  •  ° 

her  companion. 

"  My  son  says  that  you  think  of  going  to  Lon- 
don to-morrow,  Miss  de  Berthier.  I  had  not 
heard  of  that  intention  from  madame." 

"  Because  I  have  not  spoken  of  it.  I  have  been 
too  long  at  the  chateau  already.  Hospitality  and 
imposition  are  never  good  friends,  Count." 

He  nodded  his  head. 

"I  trust  that  you  will  remember  these  days 
without  regret.  Frankly,  my  own  intention  in 
coming  to  Pontarlier  was  to  speak  to  you  of  my 
son.  There  are  other  things  which  claim  pre- 
cedence, however.  Believe  me,  I  shall  never  for- 
give myself  for  that  grave  mistake  in  sending  to 
your  father's  house  one  who  had  neither  discern- 
ment nor  discretion.  The  wrong  that  has  been 
done  is  the  fruit  of  slander.  I  will  atone  for  it, 
if  it  is  in  my  power." 


THE    QUESTION  2T7 

He  spoke  with  a  dignity  which  lost  nothing  by 
confession,  and  in  a  manner  which  encouraged 
the  interchange  of  confidences. 

"  It  has  all  been  a  mistake  from  the  beginning, 
Count,"  she  said  almost  passionately.  "The 
world  in  which  you  live  cannot  understand  my 
world,  as  my  world  is  unable  to  understand 
yours.  Your  lives,  your  ideas,  your  actions  are 
upon  a  different  plane.  I  have  judged  them  by 
a  woman's  reason,  and  must  pay  the  price  of  my 
ignorance." 

"As  my  son  might  be  expected  to  pay  the 
price  of  his  birthright  in  this  sacrifice.  Princes 
are  not  sent  into  the  world  to  a  bed  of  roses,  Miss 
de  Berthier.  I  often  think  that  evil  tongues 
would  be  less  evil  if  the  whole  condition  of  our 
social  state  were  rightly  understood.  If  much  is 
given,  much,  also,  is  owed  by  such  men  as  I  am. 
To  the  country,  service ;  to  our  good  name,  hon- 
our ;  to  society,  a  respect  for  those  great  princi- 
ples upon  which  society  is  constituted.  If  we 
must  deny  ourselves  in  these,  the  primitive  things 
of  our  being,  our  solace  is  that  duty  demands  such 
sacrifices  of  us.  Such  was  my  argument  when  I 
sent  Captain  Lamberg  to  your  house.  It  is  not 
my  argument  to-day." 

She  looked  up  at  him  wonderingly.  He  was 
very  grave,  and  seemed  to  express  himself  with 
difficulty. 


278 

"  My  son  tells  me,"  he  continued,  without  wait- 
ing for  her  to  speak,  "  that  your  father  is  the 
Count  of  Mornay.  There  are  few  older  families 
than  yours  in  France,  mademoiselle." 

The  irony  of  the  truth  occurred  to  her. 

"And  few  poorer,  Count." 

"  Ah,  there  is  always  the  money  ! " 

"  "Which  buys  hearts  to  make  images  of  them 
and  put  them  on  your  pedestals." 

"The  common  creed.  Do  not  believe  in  it 
altogether.  Money  is  as  much  a  gift  from  God 
as  love.  We  forget  that  in  many  of  our  plati- 
tudes. It  is  the  fashion  to  speak  of  money  as  a 
cursed  thing,  whereas  it  may  be  one  of  the  most 
blessed.  Let  us  rule  it  from  our  argument — for 
money  is  no  part  of  that  at  least.  I  think  only 
of  my  son's  happiness ;  I  am  here  to  promote  it 
so  far  as  I  am  able." 

She  did  not  answer  him.  The  thought  occurred 
to  her  that  she  was  making  a  poor  defence  of  it, 
yet  she  knew  not  how  to  respond  to  his  sincerity. 

"I  am  here  to  promote  my  son's  happiness," 
he  continued,  "  and  for  that  it  is  necessary  to  face 
the  truth.  Jerome  has  ambitions ;  the  ambition 
of  a  soldier  less,  perhaps,  than  that  of  one  who 
would  rule  his  father's  house  worthily.  I  cannot 
conceal  from  you  that  the  alliance  I  had  con- 
ceived for  him  is  not  the  alliance  he  has  proposed 
to  me.  Many  of  my  own  wishes  must  be  sacri- 


THE    QUESTION  2Y9 

ficed  if  his  are  to  be  gratified.  And  yet,  God 
knows,  the  sacrifice  is  difficult.  "We  bear  a  great 
name  in  Austria.  I  have  hoped  that  he  would 
help  me  to  make  it  as  powerful  as  it  is  great.  If 
I  forget  those  hopes,  he,  in  turn,  must  forego  some 
part  of  that  position  I  had  designed  for  him.  I 
do  not  doubt  that  he  will  consent  willingly.  In- 
sincerity at  least  is  not  to  be  charged  against 
him." 

"  I  am  sure  of  that,"  she  said  quickly ;  "  sin- 
cerity and  the  will  to  live  for  others  are  as  nat- 
ural to  Jerome  as  sunshine'to  these  gardens.  I 
have  known  it  from  the  beginning.  If  it  had 
not  been  so,  I  should  still  be  in  London.  Women 
are  vain,  Count.  I  believed  that  I  was  necessary 
to  his  happiness.  A  woman's  mistake  it  may 
have  been — but  a  mistake  that  can  be  atoned  for. 
I  cannot  promise  you  that  he  will  forget,  for  you 
know  that  he  is  a  man  who  will  never  forget. 
But  in  so  far  as  my  own  will  may  cease  to  influ- 
ence him  I  will  respect  your  wishes.  It  has  been 
my  intention  for  some  days  now  to  leave  France, 
and  to  return  to  my  work  in  London.  Convince 
Jerome  that  I  am  right  to  go,  and  you  will  serve 
us  both." 

He  turned  to  her  and  asked  her  a  plain  ques- 
tion. 

"Miss  de  Berthier,"  he  said,  "you  love  my 
son  ?  " 


280  FfiO 

She  faltered,  embarrassed  and  troubled  as  she 
had  not  been  that  day. 

"  Was  it  necessary  to  speak  of  that  ?  "  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"We  will  not  speak  of  it,"  he  said;  "for  the 
rest,  I  respect  your  wishes.  You  shall  return  to 
London — but  not  to-morrow.  You  are  not  in  a 
fit  state  of  health  for  that.  Seek  a  friend  always 
in  me.  I  have  much  to  be  sorry  for.  My  debt 
to  you  is  very  heavy." 

The  words  brought  them  to  the  place  where 
the  others  sat ;  and  the  Count  turned  to  ma- 
dame's  chair,  and  so  signified  that  their  interview 
was  at  an  end.  When  the  opportunity  was  at 
hand,  Jerome  began  to  question  her,  and  she 
read  his  anxiety  in  the  manner  of  it. 

"Well,"  he  asked  impatiently,  "is  it  as  we 
wish  ?  " 

"  It  is  as  your  father  wishes." 

"  And  that  is  ?  " 

"  That  I  am  to  return  to  London." 

"  Then  I  shall  go  with  you." 

She  laughed. 

"  You  know  that  it  is  out  of  the  question." 


CHAPTEK  XXXI 

RESOLUTION 

IT  was  the  Count's  first  visit  to  the  Jura  moun- 
tains, and  when  the  heat  of  the  day  had  passed, 
he  set  off  with  Jerome  for  a  ride  in  the  hills ; 
while  madame  drove  down  to  Pontarlier  to  see 
that  all  was  done  well  for  the  reputation  of  her 
house.  Eccentric  and  petulant  as  the  old  lady 
was,  she  had  yet  that  inheritance  of  dignity  and 
of  tradition  which  enabled  her  to  serve  even 
such  an  occasion  as  this ;  avoiding,  upon  the  one 
hand,  the  ostentation  of  display,  and  upon  the 
other  that  familiarity  of  manner  and  speech 
which  would  have  betrayed  her  pride  in  the  en- 
tertainment of  her  guest.  Feo  realised  then  why 
Carlyle  has  said  that  manners  died  with  the 
^Revolution.  The  method,  and  order,  and  grace 
of  all  that  was  done  within  the  house  appealed 
to  her  forcibly.  She  recalled  the  millionaires' 
"soirees"  in  London;  the  vulgar  publicity  of 
them ;  the  triumphs  which  were  the  victories  of 
mere  guineas ;  the  striving  of  classes  to  become 
what  they  never  could  be ;  and  she  realised  that 
she  lived  for  the  day  at  least  in  a  different  world 

281 


282  FfiO 

— a  world  peopled  with  figures  of  the  stories  she 
had  loved  in  her  childhood,  obeying  a  code  which 
neither  years  nor  money  may  teach  ;  a  world  of 
old-time  courtiers  to  whom  the  mantle  of  the 
past  had  been  given.  And  she  was  about  to 
leave  that  world  for  ever.  It  would  remain  a 
splendid  memory  for  the  days  to  come — that 
vista  of  a  land  in  which  her  fathers  had  lived 
and  moved,  and  the  romance  of  her  history  had 
been  written. 

She  had  no  hesitation  now  as  to  the  strength 
of  her  own  resolution.  In  her  heart,  a  woman's 
instinct  told  her  that  Jerome  would  suffer  as  she 
must  suffer.  She  had  wished  his  happiness ;  but 
that  happiness  was  not  to  be.  If  she  could  not 
follow  altogether  the  Archduke's  logic,  she 
blamed  herself  for  her  want  of  perspicuity. 
Even  now,  when  all  was  understood  between 
them,  the  humour  in  which  he  had  left  her  was 
not  to  be  comprehended.  Jerome  could  laugh 
still  at  her  intention  to  go  to  London.  His 
father  had  ridden  away  to  the  hills,  promising 
her  that  when  she  was  well  enough,  she  should 
be  his  companion  in  many  an  excursion  such  as 
that.  Madame  treated  her  still  as  a  foolish 
child,  wayward  and  impetuous.  Sometimes  she 
doubted  if  these  people  (save  Jerome  alone)  were 
sincere,  either  in  their  attitude  towards  her  or  in 
the  wishes  they  expressed.  They  could  not 


KESOLUTION  283 

know  what  such  an  hour  must  cost  or  mean  to 
her.  Their  jest  was  with  a  woman's  life.  To- 
morrow, when  she  quitted  the  chateau,  it  would 
be  a  fate  she  dared  not  depict.  Death  would  be 
compassion  in  such  an  hour.  And  she  must  live 
-^must  live  on  through  the  weary  years  when 
memory  alone  should  speak  of  happiness  or  even 
of  content. 

They  had  left  her  alone  in  the  gardens  when 
the  Archduke  set  off  for  his  ride,  and  it  was  not 
until  five  o'clock  that  Victorine  and  Leslie  Drum- 
mond  returned  from  their  tour  of  the  grounds. 
Feo  desired  ardently  to  see  Leslie,  and  found  her 
opportunity  when  Victorine  ran  in  to  order  tea, 
and  her  old  friend  came  slouching  up  to  her, 
apologetically,  and  not  a  little  abashed.  It  was 
odd  to  meet  him  under  such  circumstances  ;  but 
their  relations  had  always  been  so  frank  and  well 
understood  that  neither  suffered  embarrassment 
because  of  them. 

"  It's  fate,  my  dear  Leslie,"  she  said ;  "  wher- 
ever destiny  sends  me,  it  bids  you  follow.  At 
Pontarlier,  of  all  places,  I  did  not  expect  you." 

"  All  the  more  reason  why  I  should  turn  up. 
Your  friend  was  in  a  fix  and  sent  me  a  telegram. 
I  came  along  because  I  thought  that  I  might 
help  you.  You  know  how  much  I  want  to  help 
you,  Feo." 

"Of  course  I  do.    When  you  take  Yictorine 


284 

for  an  hour's  walk  in  the  woods,  you  help  me 
very  much.  I  hope  you  will  behave  well  to  that 
poor  child,  Leslie." 

He  flushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  and  began 
to  fumble  awkwardly  with  his  gloves. 

"  She's  a  jolly  girl,"  he  said ;  "  I'll  have  to  go 
and  take  a  course  in  French  just  to  talk  to  her. 
We've  been  doing  the  deaf  and  dumb  business 
all  the  afternoon.  I  never  knew  how  mutes 
made  love  until  I  came  to  Pontarlier.  It  seems 
to  me  they  must  shuffle  along  pretty  comfortably 
somehow." 

"  Leslie,  you're  a  most  fickle  creature.  Don't 
apologise.  It's  the  nature  of  the  animal.  I  be- 
lieve you  are  going  to  fall  in  love  with  Victorine. 
Let  me  implore  you  to  be  discreet.  A  man  who 
stumbles  at  his  second  fence  is  lost  for  ever.  I 
was  the  first.  They  always  clear  that." 

He  acquiesced  bluntly. 

"  Let's  agree  to  a  truce,"  he  said ;  "  I  shall  al- 
ways be  your  friend,  Feo." 

"  Of  course  you  will ;  that's  why  I  want  to 
talk  to  you  now.  Do  you  know  that  I  must  go 
to  London  to-morrow — alone  ?  " 

He  laughed. 

"  Oh,  I  say,  that  won't  do  !  You're  humbug- 
ging me." 

She  remained  serious. 

"  I  am  going  to  London  to-morrow  alone,  and 


RESOLUTION  285 

I  want  a  ticket.  There  is  only  one  friend  here 
that  I  can  come  to,  and  he  laughs  at  me.  I 
must  find  another  way." 

"  I  am  to  believe  that  you  are  not  joking  ?  " 

"  Look  at  me  and  ask  yourself  if  I  am  joking." 

"  But  what  does  Jerome  say  about  it  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  intend  to  consult  him." 

"Oh,  but  I  shall!" 

"  Not  when  I  tell  you  that  I  do  not  wish  it. 
Get  me  a  ticket  from  Pontarlier  to  London,  and 
I  will  believe  what  you  say  about  our  friend- 
ship." 

He  turned  and  looked  her  full  in  the  face. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  wish  to  get 
away  from  here  and  cannot,  Feo  ?  " 

"  You  express  my  wishes  exactly." 

"  And  you  are  determined  to  go  ?  " 

"  Quite  determined." 

"  Then  I'll  take  you  myself." 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  my  dear 
Leslie.  I  shall  come  out  to  the  grounds  to- 
morrow morning  at  seven  o'clock.  You  will 
suggest  driving  me  to  the  Cascades.  You  will 
take  me  to  the  station  at  Pontarlier,  and  then 
return  to  tell  them  what  I  have  done.  Nothing 
could  be  more  simple  if  you  are  sensible." 

He  debated  it  for  a  little  while,  walking  up 
and  down  the  terrace  as  one  in  great  perplexity. 
Then  he  asked  her  a  question. 


286  FfiO 

"  Why  are  you  leaving  Jerome  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  better  that  I  should  leave  him." 

"  You  have  come  to  that  conclusion  properly. 
It  isn't  a  whim,  or  a  tiff,  or  anything  of  that 
sort  ?  " 

"  Am  I  the  person  to  indulge  in  whims  ?  " 

"Not  usually,  but  you  never  know  what  a 
woman  will  do  next.  Of  course,  if  you're  seri- 
ous, I  am." 

"  Leslie,"  she  said  quietly,  "  I  was  never  more 
serious  in  my  life." 

Again  he  reflected  a  little. 

"  There's  something  behind  this  I  don't  under- 
stand," he  said ;  "  but  I'll  take  you  to  London, 
since  you  mean  to  go." 

"You  will  take  me  to  Pontarlier,"  she  ex- 
claimed decisively ;  "  it  is  a  promise." 

Victorine  ran  up  as  she  spoke,  and  the  conver- 
sation changed  abruptly.  When  the  others  re- 
turned to  the  chateau,  they  said  that  Feo  had 
never  seemed  so  well.  And  at  dinner  that  night 
and  afterwards  when  she  sang  to  them  as  she 
had  never  sung  before,  the  spirit  of  sustained 
gaiety  and  of  unnatural  excitement  was  upon 
her. 

"  Is  she  not  splendid  ?  "  cried  madarae  in  her 
delight ;  "  ah,  we  shall  find  a  husband  for  her ! " 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE   BEEAKING  DAWN 

FEO,  at  the  window  of  her  room,  watched  the 
dawn  light  breaking  upon  the  distant  mountains 
and  the  valley  of  pastures  wherein  her  Eldorado 
had  been  found.  She  had  not  slept,  nor  thought 
of  sleep,  in  those  hours  of  tumultuous  reaction 
and  of  unspoken  farewell.  As  some  child  leav- 
ing a  home  wherein  all  the  richest  memories  of 
her  being  were  stored,  so  she  prepared  to  quit  the 
scene  of  her  brief  happiness  and  of  her  love- 
dream.  Every  flower  in  those  awakening  gar- 
dens, every  hamlet  upon  that  verdurous  plain, 
had  endeared  itself  to  one  who  had  first  learned 
of  the  repose  of  life  in  that  stately  house.  The 
distant  city  awaiting  her — that  very  whirlpool  of 
hope  and  ambition,  and  stress  and  strife,  was 
about  to  draw  her  again  to  its  vortex.  She  clung, 
in  her  heart,  to  this  fair  country,  as  a  child  to 
the  mother  that  bare  it.  Visions  of  the  "  might 
have  been,"  of  a  home  in  such  a  land  with  Je- 
rome at  her  side,  tormented  her  unceasingly. 
She  stood  at  her  window  and  looked  upon  the 
east  glowing  with  the  iridescence  of  day,  and  be- 

287 


288  FfiO 

held  the  world  of  nature  triumphant  in  the  hour 
of  dawn,  and  asked  herself  what  the  night  would 
mean  to  her.  The  shadow  of  death  seemed  upon 
the  path  she  must  follow.  She  could  neither 
wholly  realise  the  full  meaning  of  her  act,  nor 
contemplate  its  consequences.  She  knew  only 
that  she  must  turn  to  the  darkness — that  the 
light  no  more  would  shine  for  her. 

It  was  dawn  when  she  began  to  prepare  for 
her  journey;  but  she  lingered  in  the  task,  re- 
membering that  Leslie  would  not  be  ready  for 
her  until  seven  o'clock,  and  fearing  to  set  tongues 
busy  again  if  she  were  discovered  in  the  gardens 
at  so  early  an  hour.  "When,  at  last,  she  thought 
it  safe  to  go  down,  and  had  put  together  the  few 
things  she  deemed  indispensable  to  the  long  day 
before  her,  she  opened  the  door  of  her  room 
timidly,  and  stood  for  a  moment  hesitating,  and 
almost  afraid,  at  the  head  of  the  great  staircase. 
Jerome's  room  was  there.  There  surged  up  in 
her  heart  a  great  longing  to  say  if  it  were  but 
one  word  of  farewell  to  him.  Through  the  years 
to  come  she  would  hear  his  voice  no  more.  The 
loneliness  of  her  own  future,  the  thought  that 
she  was  as  one  forsaken  by  all  the  world,  so 
warred  upon  her  courage  that  she  did  not  move 
from  the  place  until  minutes  had  passed.  One 
word  of  pity  would  have  broken  down  her  reso- 
lution in  that  moment.  It  was  not  spoken,  and 


THE  BKEAKING  DAWN  289 

she  went  on  with  dry  eyes — out  to  the  gardens, 
to  the  sunshine,  and  the  sweet  air  of  the  day. 

The  clocks  of  the  house  were  striking  half -past 
six  when  she  quitted  the  house,  and  she  remem- 
bered that  she  must  wait  half  an  hour  for  Leslie 
yet.  Never  had  day  dawned  so  slowly.  Her 
love  for  the  chateau,  for  the  wooded  hills,  for 
that  scene  of  her  hopes  and  her  dreams,  impressed 
itself  upon  her  with  renewed  strength,  as  the  vi- 
sions of  that  summer's  day  were  contemplated 
anew.  She  could  not  leave  her  home,  she  said. 
The  bitterness  of  farewell  was  magnified  a  thou- 
sand times  when  she  whispered  Jerome's  name, 
and  remembered  that,  as  her  path  was,  so  must 
his  be.  Nevertheless,  for  his  sake  the  sacrifice 
must  be  made.  She  prayed  to  God  to  give  her 
courage  of  the  hour. 

One  by  one  the  minutes  passed — she  numbered 
them,  walking  upon  the  eastern  terrace  with  im- 
patient steps,  and  a  brain  that  seemed  to  burn  in 
the  confliotion  of  thought  and  argument.  What- 
ever her  temptations  might  be  now,  she  knew 
that  she  had  chosen  the  better  part.  Jerome 
would  forget  as  the  changing  years  obliterated 
memory  and  carried  him  onward  to  the  summit 
of  his  ambitions.  She  would  work  and  suffer — 
and  remember.  Such  had  been  the  woman's 
part  from  the  beginning.  Already  she  had,  in 
silence,  spoken  her  last  "  good-bye  "  to  the  friends 


290  FfiO 

she  had  found  in  that  new  home  of  hers.  One 
by  one,  to  the  arbours  of  the  gardens,  to  the  dogs 
that  fawned  at  her  feet,  to  the  horses  that  had 
learned  to  know  her  voice,  farewell  was  given. 
The  manner  of  it  alone  troubled  her.  They 
would  call  her  ingrate  in  the  house ;  she  must 
permit  the  word,  for  she  could  find  no  other 
way. 

"  Oh !  God  knows  it  is  hard  enough ;  they  will 
never  understand  me — they  have  never  under- 
stood me  from  the  first.  And  yet  I  must — I 
must  for  Jerome's  sake." 

It  was  a  piteous  word,  uttered  aloud  as  she 
stood  at  the  stable  door,  listening  eagerly  for 
Leslie's  footstep  on  the  path.  And  when  an  an- 
swer to  it  reached  her  ears,  she  turned  as  though 
one  had  struck  her  on  the  face.  She  thought 
herself  to  be  alone — but  the  Archduke  stood  at 
her  side,  and  his  was  the  voice  she  had  heard. 

"  Miss  de  Berthier,"  he  said,  and  that  was  all. 

She  did  not  know  how  to  answer  him.  There, 
before  her,  was  an  erect  old  man,  with  hands 
outstretched,  and  love  and  pity  for  her  in  his 
kindly  eyes. 

"  Miss  de  Berthier — Feo,"  he  said,  "  help  me  to 
make  my  son  happy.  I  wish  it." 

She  sank  at  his  feet  weeping. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE   END   OF  THE   PLAY 

IN  the  winter  of  the  year,  five  months  after 
Feo  had  quitted  the  Chateau  de  Joux,  there  was 
a  great  reception  at  the  palace  of  the  Prince  of 
Lightenstein,  which  lies  near  the  western  gate  of 
the  Prater  in  Vienna.  Many  from  the  most  ex- 
clusive society  in  Europe  went  to  the  Prince's 
house,  carried  there  by  the  hope  of  meeting  the 
wife  of  Jerome  of  Maros,  and  of  seeing  one 
whose  romantic  history  had  delighted  the  ready 
tongue  of  rumour.  Ministers  and  diplomatists, 
great  dames  who  ruled  the  social  city,  the  arch- 
bishop and  the  canons,  officers  of  the  Cuirassiers, 
the  outposts  of  the  privileged,  flocked  to  the 
palace  upon  that  winter's  day,  and  discussed  as 
they  went  the  curiosity  which  sent  them. 

"  She  has  come  from  Geneva.  They  spent  the 
honeymoon  there — in  a  cottage.  Romantic —  ? 
It  was  his  idea — but  he  was  always  a  dreamer. 
They  say  that  she  is  related  to  the  Mornays.  A 
beautiful  woman,  my  dear." 

"  Not  so  quickly,  not  so  quickly.  Let  us  see 
her  first.  For  my  part,  I  believe  nothing. 

291 


292 

When  a  man  marries  a  singer,  he  always  discov- 
ers that  she  is  of  noble  blood.  The  Archduke 
was  right  to  say  '  no.'  But  he  has  a  son  who 
will  not  listen.  Ah,  my  dear,  marriage  is  a 
strange  thing  nowadays !  They  are  letting  us 
choose  our  own  husbands — and  what  will  become 
of  the  others  ?  I  should  die  of  ennui  if  I  had 
married  the  man  I  wanted." 

Thus  two  dames — who  mounted  the  marble 
staircase  of  the  palace ;  but  elsewhere,  the  talk 
was  all  of  Feo.  A  great  singer,  some  said ; 
others  declared  her  to  be  a  consummate  actress. 
Women  spoke  of  the  old  Count,  and  remembered 
him  as  adventurer  or  merely  charlatan.  Cer- 
tainly, the  girl  had  played  her  cards  well.  She 
had  outwitted  the  old  Archduke  and  brought 
him,  servient,  to  her  feet.  Another  woman 
would  have  been  content  with  an  out-of-the-way 
ceremony  before  some  obliging  priest ;  but  not 
so  this  singer.  She  was  Jerome's  wife  beyond 
dispute.  There  had  been  a  service  in  the  great 
cathedral,  the  Archbishop  had  married  them,  the 
Archduke  had  taken  her  to  the  church.  A 
clever  woman — undoubtedly  one  to  provoke  this 
curiosity. 

In  the  music-room  of  the  palace,  a  lofty  apart- 
ment with  many  chandeliers,  and  chairs  canopied 
as  thrones,  and  a  garish  ceiling  which  French 
artists  had  painted,  the  curiosity  of  Prince 


THE  END  OF  THE  PLAY  293 

Lightenstein's  guests  was  gratified.  Every 
"Wednesday,  as  the  cynics  avowed,  the  musical 
amateurs  of  the  city  were  permitted  in  this  room 
to  show  how  great  was  the  gulf  which  divided 
them  from  their  professional  brethren.  Poets, 
to  whom  the  magazines  were  closed  books,  here 
recited  their  odes  to  Spring  and  the  muses ;  here 
were  heard  the  dilettanti  who  patronised  the 
arts,  but  were  by  the  arts  unpatronised.  If  few 
listened  to  the  clamour  of  genius,  music,  at  least, 
stimulated  conversation  and  permitted  many  a 
wit  to  gather  profit  of  his  long-studied  im- 
promptu. All  that  was  best  in  the  society  of 
Vienna  was  to  be  heard  or  seen  in  the  Prince's 
salons  during  these  hours  of  loquacious  strife  and 
musical  stress.  Scandalous  chronicles,  the  dis- 
creet banter  of  merry  priests,  the  persiflage 
which  delights  the  shallow,  helped  the  success  of 
the  matinees.  The  very  latest  news  of  the  Em- 
peror, the  newest  gown  from  Paris,  the  prettiest 
story  from  the  theatres, — you  heard  them  all 
while  the  poets  babbled  on  and  the  composers 
waged  war  upon  the  offended  pianoforte.  But 
never  was  there  a  prettier  story  than  that  of 
Feo,  the  singer — a  story  as  Vienna  knew  it  the 
twentieth  time  when  Jerome  brought  his  wife 
from  Italy. 

Feo  stood  upon  the  Archduke's  right  hand,  a 
pretty  figure  in  a  gown  of  green  and  gold.     She 


294  FfiO 

wore  no  jewels,  needed  no  other  ornament  than 
that  of  her  abundant  hair,  and  of  the  bright, 
laughing  eyes,  which  seemed  to  tell,  now  of  the 
shadows  of  her  life,  now  of  its  joys.  From  time 
to  time  she  would  exchange  a  swift  glance  with 
Jerome ;  nor  could  she  conceal  that  triumph  of 
the  hour  which  gave  her  the  right  so  to  stand 
side  by  side  with  him.  For  the  rest,  it  may  be 
that  she  did  not  realise  the  scene  or  its  meaning. 
In  the  chalet  above  the  lake  of  Geneva,  where 
she  had  first  known  the  whole  truths  of  her  love, 
there  had  been  few  to  remind  her  of  the  greater 
world  which  marriage  must  open  to  her.  But 
here,  in  Vienna,  she  awoke,  rudely  almost,  to 
hear  the  first  message  of  victory,  to  flinch  before 
the  homage  which  was  her  due.  They  called  her 
"  Princess,"  and  she  would  run  away  to  her  room 
to  laugh  at  her  own  conceit,  or  to  ask  herself  if 
she  were  really  that  Feo  who  had  lived  in  the 
garrets  of  London  but  a  year  ago.  The  light 
and  glitter  of  the  new  world  blinded  her.  She 
clung  to  Jerome  as  one  cast  out  to  a  strange  city, 
wherein  he  was  her  only  friend.  In  other  hours, 
she  would  dream  of  the  old  life,  of  its  degrada- 
tions and  its  hopelessness ;  and  awake  from  her 
sleep  affrighted;  nor  believe  the  truth  until 
Jerome  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  to 
remembrance.  Each  day  the  joy  of  morning 
was  the  sure  knowledge  that  never  again  would 


THE  END  OF  THE  PLAY          295 

the  night  return.  She  had  come  out  of  the  dark- 
ness to  this  kingdom  of  her  imagination.  But 
the  village,  and  not  the  city,  seemed  to  her  the 
truer  home  of  love  abiding. 

Gaudy  uniforms  moved  about  her  in  Prince 
Lightenstein's  salons.  The  old  Archduke  stood 
proudly  at  her  side,  and  said  to  all  the  world, 
"  My  daughter."  Jerome,  himself,  was  the  same 
matter-of-fact,  unemotional  fellow  he  had  ever 
been  ;  but  he,  too,  could  flush  as  he  looked  down 
upon  the  sweet  face  of  his  wife,  and  so  answered 
for  all  time  the  tongue  of  rumour  which  long 
had  slandered  him.  Everywhere  about  him  in 
the  great  rooms  the  friends  and  enemies  of  his 
house  discussed  the  romance  which  had  brought 
Feo  to  Yienna.  But  her  presence  was  his  vic- 
tory, and,  conscious  of  it,  he  stood  defiantly  at 
the  bar  of  social  justice.  In  his  way  he  was 
grateful  to  her  for  that  very  triumph  which  was 
the  due  of  her  beauty.  "  They  cannot  help  it, 
Feo,"  he  said;  "see  how  they  fall  down  and 
worship  you." 

She  answered  him  with  a  look  wherein  he 
read  all  her  heart;  and  afterwards,  when  the 
last  of  the  musicians  had  put  away  his  fiddle, 
and  the  last  of  the  poets  had  condescended  to 
admit  that  he  was  a  genius,  Jerome  took  her  to 
the  gardens  of  the  palace,  and  there  she  con- 
fessed those  intimate  things  of  which  he  heard 


296  FfiO 

delightedly.  She  feared  for  herself,  for  him,  she 
said.  There  was,  always  a  voice  to  tell  her  that 
she  was  the  one  without  the  wedding  garment. 

His  friends  were  kind,  but  if  they  spoke  all ! 

A  deeply  sensitive  character  anticipated  an  an- 
tagonism which  no  other  contemplated. 

"  They  are  kind  to  me — but  do  they  mean  it, 
dear  ?  "What  they  are  saying  of  me  now  ?  What 
do  they  think  of  me  ?  If  one  could  only  know ! 
Oh,  I  was  happier  at  Montreux — I  shall  never 
forget  those  days !  And  people  were  not  three 
hundred  years  old  there.  My  father  used  to  say 
that  no  one  was  received  in  Vienna  unless  his 
nobility  was  three  hundred  years  old.  And  I  am 
only  twenty-five." 

Jerome,  listening  sympathetically,  drew  her 
closer  to  him. 

"  It  was  a  triumph,  little  wife,  a  triumph  for 
us  both.  Oh,  I  know !  I  have  seen  so  many 
days  like  this.  To-morrow,  the  world  will  talk 
of  nothing  else  but  Feo,  and  I  shall  listen.  It 
must  talk  of  her.  When  our  house  is  ready  for 
us,  we  will  open  the  doors,  and  you  will  see  who 
comes  in.  Do  not  think  they  are  kind  to  you  for 
my  sake.  Society,  which  is  the  sham  of  life, 
criticises  the  women  first.  It  will  criticise  Feo 
now,  and  I  shall  laugh  to  read.  It  cannot  help 
it,  dearest ;  I  have  brought  you  here  because  I 
knew  what  must  be — success,  success  always. 


THE  END  OF  THE  PLAY  297 

Afterwards  we  will  go  to  Montreux  to  think  of 
it.  If  we  stay  here  a  little  while  and  do  many 
things  we  do  not  want  to  do,  it  is  for  my  father's 
sake.  He  wishes  you  to  be  in  Vienna.  After 
all,  the  sacrifice  is  not  so  hard — a  great  many 
fine  houses,  dinners  everywhere,  the  theatre — 
new  gowns  from  Paris.  Will  you  live  through 
that,  Feo  ?  " 

She  raised  her  lips  to  his  and  kissed  him. 

"One  of  the  martyrs — and  oh,  so  happy,  Je- 
rome, so  happy  !  The  night  was  long,  but  the 
day  has  come.  Dear  love,  it  will  never  be  night 
any  more." 

He  answered  her  with  a  lover's  caress ;  and 
after  a  whispered  word  of  content,  he  told  her  of 
other  things. 

"  There  was  a  letter  from  the  chateau  to-day," 
he  said ;  "  old  Leslie  is  there  and  intends  to  be- 
come a  fixture,  I  believe.  Madame  will  weep  if 
it  goes  through  without  an  intrigue.  But  I 
imagine  that  Leslie  is  settled  this  time.  We 
shall  have  Yictorine  here  for  a  honeymoon  be- 
fore the  spring.  You  always  promised  that, 
Feo." 

"Because  I  was  a  woman,"  she  answered 
laughingly ;  "  the  child  had  her  picture  of  a 
lover  ready  long  ago;  but  the  face  was  nebu- 
lous. When  Leslie  came,  she  had  only  to  say, 
1  Here  is  the  long  lost  one.'  And  she  will  love 


298 

him  passionately  because  she  has  made  up  her 
mind  to  it.  Dear  little  Yictorine,  she  must  be 
happy ! " 

"  We  will  take  it  for  granted.  The  man  does 
not  count  in  such  a  case." 

"  Oh,  but  Leslie  counts  always !  I  am  not 
afraid  for  him.  He  takes  things  as  he  finds 
them.  He  would  have  taken  me  once  in  an  old 
hat  and  a  Scotch  overcoat  very  much  too  large 
for  me — but,  you  see,  my  picture  was  already 
drawn,  dear.  And  he  will  make  a  model  hus- 
band. He  always  did  what  I  told  him — even 
when  I  said  *  Go  away.'  There's  a  man  for 
you." 

"  A  censure  by  comparison.  I,  at  least,  never 
do  what  I  am  told.  How  often  you  used  to  say 
'  Go  away '  to  me,  Feo." 

She  sighed. 

"  But  I  will  never  say  it  again." 

He  put  his  arm  about  her.  and  together  they  re- 
turned to  the  palace.  The  lamps  were  lighted 
then;  all  the  splendour  of  the  vast  rooms  as- 
serted itself  to  be  the  enemy  of  night.  And  to 
Feo  it  seemed  that  a  greater  world  was  opening 
to  her  eyes;  a  new  country  of  her  dreams,  a 
habitation  peopled  by  strange  figures,  a  dominion 
of  which  she  must  be  the  mistress.  The  immen- 
sity of  the  change  awed  her.  The  garish  lights 
of  her  triumph  blinded  her  timid  eyes.  By  love 


THE  END  OF  THE  PLAY          299 

had  she  come  to  this  kingdom.  The  gifts  of 
love  should  make  her  worthy.  Feo,  the  singer, 
lived  no  more,  she  said.  In  the  heart  of  the  man 
she  had  died,  as  in  his  heart  the  new  Feo  must 
be  born. 

****** 

At  the  same  hour  in  London,  old  Georges  de 
Berthier  had  gone  to  his  club  to  tell  any  who 
would  listen  to  him  of  his  daughter's  reception 
in  Vienna,  and  of  the  Empress's  kindness  to  her. 
No  longer  did  he  forget  that  France  had  called 
him  Count,  and  had  written  the  story  of  his  fore- 
fathers in  the  annals  of  the  nation.  "  We  are  of 
the  Mornays,"  he  would  declare  proudly ;  "  with 
our  blood  we  bought  liberty.  In  Vienna  they 
know  us.  My  daughter's  name  is  on  every 
tongue.  Every  door  is  open  to  her.  I  am  too 
old  to  go  there — but  she  is  very  good  to  me. 
She  is  a  great  singer,  my  daughter — a  great 
artist  has  been  lost  to  the  world ;  it  is  destiny. 
I  do  not  complain.  I  shall  live  and  die  alone, 
but  she  will  be  happy.  And  she  will  honour  my 
name.  She  will  never  forget." 

The  few  listen  and  pass  on;  but  elsewhere, 
none  hear  the  name  of  Feo,  the  singer. 


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